Pumps And Pipes
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Sam and Dean and a werewolf. Simple? Not when Dean has internal struggles that, if he wins, will be the last loss he will ever face. And then there’s Sam, having to play Dean through no fault of his own. Or is it?
1. One

**Author's note:**

_Once upon a time, from a continent six thousand miles away, my l'il sis e-mailed me and said she had this scene in her head, a story prompt that I could use. The funny thing is, I'd had the same premise but needed the right scene to set the tone for the whole thing. (Cue two weeks of me turning it on its head, and here we are.) Coincidence? No. Sisters being sisters who are really quite scarily attuned to the same eccentric frequency? I think so. I might also think that she's the moral-compass-holding bitch and I'm the facetious, dumbass jerk. Some days._

_For my sister. Cos she 'gets' me._

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* * *

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**One**

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"**Status report?" she asked curtly.**

"**All engines smooth at half capacity, Skipper," the female engineer reported immediately. "A slight imbalance in the starboard renal hold - too much ballast."**

"**Right." She turned and walked across the red, bouncy grating to the side wall. She reached out and took the mouthpiece from its hook, clearing her throat before flicking the side switch. "Pilot to Renal Control."**

**A beat. Two. Then the communications channel crackled into life with another female voice. "Renal Control."**

"**We're reading too much ballast in your starboard hold. Is there a problem?"**

"**Aye, Skipper. We've requested a flush but it's not been confirmed. We're looking to re-balance the sides ASAP."**

"**Who are you waiting on?"**

"**Ah…" There was a pause as readouts were consulted. The voice became more confident. "Renal Control is a go, Logistics Interface is a go, Impulse is set to default… There's no physical reason for the delay. It must be an Action Pending or some kind of intervention from EP."**

"**Right. Monitor the levels. If the balance isn't redressed before it reaches critical, we'll go for an emergency evacuation of the starboard hold."**

"**Right you are, Skipper. Renal Control out."**

**The Pilot slid the switch the closed and hung the comms piece back on its hook. She put her hands behind her back and turned with thought. She looked back at the young woman manning the monitors, her dull red jumpsuit looking even darker in the overhead lights, and then crossed the slightly bouncy red matter to see the read-outs for herself.**

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* * *

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"So I'm thinking this werewolf is--. Will you stop jigging about like that?" Sam snapped from the passenger seat.

"Can't help it."

"You should have gone before we left."

"Don't start, Sam. I'll be fine."

"Then stop wriggling!"

"Just go over the notes, alright?" Dean growled.

"Fine!" Sam cried, glaring at the driver's seat. He tried to ignore his elder brother's right knee as it appeared to shiver up and down inside of his jeans. Instead he flicked the map out straight in his hands and cleared his throat. "Right. The werewolf has to be based at the school - Bobby's covered half of this place already, and he reckons one of the teachers could be--"

He was jerked forward. He gasped in surprise and dropped the map to clutch at the rapidly approaching dashboard. "What the Hell--" The Impala had already screeched to a halt.

He heard the door creak open on the driver's side and looked over to see Dean hopping out of the car. Sam sighed and began to fold the map a little smaller, listening to the car idle. He caught sight of his brother's back disappearing slightly into the brush at the side of the road. Sighing, he pointed his Maglite down at the map, the interior light helping to make out the town centre within the faint red circle he had drawn on it.

A few minutes later and Dean re-appeared, much calmer, sliding back into the car and squeaking the door shut.

"Feel better?" Sam asked, pre-occupied.

"Yeah."

"Dude, you were ages. How much coffee did you drink?"

Dean ignored him, revving the engine before sliding her into Drive. He checked his mirrors and pulled back out onto the road. "So carry on, what we doing here?" he asked quietly.

Sam slid his eyes to his brother, thought for a moment, and then pretended to look back at the map. "You… ah… feeling ok?" he asked lightly.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Cos that's like the fourth pee-break you've taken in an hour," Sam pointed out, his voice still havering around 'careful'. "Either you're actually drinking water like it's whisky, or you got a problem, dude."

"Just work out how we're gonna find this wolf when it's not going around advertising the kills it makes," Dean groused. "How do we kill it?"

Sam kept his head pointed down, but his eyes slid over again to gauge his brother's slightly red face. _I hope that's anger and not a physical symptom_, he realised. _A sick Dean is the last thing I need._ "We ah, shoot it," Sam said with deliberate sarcasm. "Or did you forget about the two boxes of silver bullets we just picked up last week?"

"I know _that_," Dean grumped. "I meant how do we find it? Is it a straight lure or something more complicated?"

_He's defensive_, Sam observed. _Aw crap. There might really be something up with him. Great_. "I don't know yet. Why don't we find a motel, hole up for a night and come at it fresh?"

"Sounds good," Dean nodded, accepting the olive branch for now.

Sam folded the map neatly, sniffing innocently as he looked out through the front windscreen. "When you see the first turn on your right, take it," he instructed. "Should take us into town. There's bound to be a motel there." He looked back at Bobby's circle on the street plan.

"Super," Dean allowed. The car rumbled on until Dean glanced at his brother. Another minute, another glance. Then another one.

Sam dropped the map into his lap and turned in the seat, glaring at him. "Ok, what?" he demanded flatly.

"Nothin'," Dean managed, but his chin tipped up too far as he tilted his head left, watching the road. Sam continued to stare. Eventually Dean's gaze fell level again. "Just… Do you ever wonder… why we're bothering?"

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He reconsidered. He frowned but his eyebrows were going with concern. "Bothering with what?" he asked carefully.

"Well… Werewolf hunts. When the world's going to end anyway," Dean said quietly.

"The world's _not_ going to end - we'll stop it," Sam said firmly.

Dean snorted mirthlessly. But he said nothing.

Sam stared for another minute. Then another. But Dean appeared to be oblivious of the car and in fact anything that wasn't the road in front of him.

Sam turned round and sank into the seat. His eyes slid to his brother in a way that conveyed an entire encyclopaedia entry on Worry. He looked back at the map.

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* * *

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"**Pilot, this is Renal Control," came the overhead call. **

**She turned and walked straight over to the comms piece. She whisked it up and slid the switch up. "This is the Pilot. Report."**

"**We've established balance between port and starboard renal holds," came the crisp reply. "However, we have a problem."**

"**Well?"**

"**Adrenaline Control reports interference from EP with flush and replace," was the answer. "We've double-checked and it looks like it was the cause of the renal hold imbalances over the past twenty-four hours."**

"**Check all other stations for instances of interference or imbalance - and I want to know how they relieved the problem and what EP has to say for itself. All data is to be forwarded to me up here ASAP."**

"**Aye. We're also showing signs of another imbalance building up - port renal hold."**

"**Holey pores, girl. How much needs to be flushed?"**

"**It's negligible, much less than should be a problem, but with the other stations also near capacity it needs flushing soon before the pressure builds too high."**

"**Get on it. And… Keep me informed of any more ballast trouble with the renal holds. This doesn't look good."**

"**Are we expecting trouble, Skipper?"**

"**With this vessel? Always," she replied dryly. "Get to it."**

"**Aye, Skipper."**

.

* * *

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Sam opened the motel door only to be pushed aside by Dean. He dumped his duffle on the bed before making a beeline straight for the bathroom. Sam frowned as his brother didn't even bother to close the door properly before relieving himself in as fast a manner as possible.

"Dude - do you have to?" Sam protested.

"No, I thought I'd force myself," Dean snapped back. "What do you think, Einstein?"

The tinkle of water stopped and Sam heard a zip before the door shut completely. He tossed his duffle to the bed farthest from the door and plonked himself down. "Seriously, you alright in there?" he called.

"What are you now, the Pee Police?" Dean shot back above the sound of taps running.

"Whatever," Sam muttered. He peeled off his jacket and then bent over to his trainers, unlacing them and letting them fall to the threadbare carpet by the side of his bed.

The bathroom door opened and Dean appeared, his face creased by worry but not saying a word. He managed three words to his brother before stripping down to shorts, shoving everything off his bed and rolling in with an entire rain cloud hovering above him.

Sam watched him bounce onto his left side to put his back to him. He got up and put his hand on the table between the beds, leaning over and clicking off the lamp over Dean's headboard.

Dean didn't react. Sam could almost hear the breath frowning out of his brother and sighed with unease.

An hour of checking notes and maps later, and Sam himself turned in for the night.

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* * *

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"**Skipper, we have the reports," the younger girl said from the bank of monitors.**

"**Assessment?" she pilot asked, crossing the red decking.**

"**It looks like a system-wide problem," she managed, shocked. "Renal Control is having problems due to the shunt from the Detoxification Centre. They're working double-time but can't compensate - it's all coming down from Adrenaline Control," she added.**

"**It's system-wide?" the pilot asked, putting her hand on the desk and the back of the girl's chair, leaning in to look at the main screen. "How can than be?"**

"**I'm not sure, Skipper. I've never seen readings like these."**

**The pilot straightened, putting her hands behind her back. "Bundle the reports. Seal them 'Urgent'," she instructed. "And send them to High Command."**

"**Skipper?"**

"**Now. This sounds like it will very soon be an emergency."**

"**Aye, Skipper." The girl tapped away at her keyboard. **

**The Pilot took a step back, sweeping her gaze around the hard-working crew members, every one female, bent to their tasks. She thought back over the years, the decades, the stress and strife, the battles they had won, the near-misses and actual direct hits…**

"**Wait. Belay that order," she said suddenly. She took a step back to the rear of the girl's chair. "Show me Stress Central."**

**The girl nodded, her blond pony-tail bobbing to and fro as she worked her terminal. "Here, Skipper."**

**The pilot bent to see. "Hmm. Stress levels are way up across the board. Do you have the report from Cardiac Services?"**

**The girl's fingers flew over the keyboard and she bent to see over her shoulder. **

"**And you say there's no mechanical or physical reason for this?" she mused. "Interesting. I think we have our reason." She straightened and thought for a long moment. "Collate all the reports. Create a timeline so I can see all incidences of emergency purges, spikes in levels, anything out of the ordinary - all together."**

"**Aye, Skipper."**

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* * *

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Sam heard a crash and a shout and jerked awake. His hand was around the gun under his pillow before he felt something pulling at his blankets.

"_Goddamn--!_" a voice hissed. "Like hidin' out in a friggin' kindergarten! You'd think the Gigantor and his freakishly deformed feet would be able to sling his swamp-boats on the _other_ side of the goddamn bed!"

Sam let himself relax, correctly realising his brother had tripped on a wayward shoe and collided with his bed. He pushed his elbows under him and looked down his blankets in the gloom.

"So what's this? A pee break or just stretching your little legs?" he said maliciously.

"Screw you, that's what this is," Dean retaliated as he bumbled into the bathroom and closed the door.

Sam sighed and flopped back to the sheets, trying to stop the tension creeping up his spine.

He was asleep before Dean emerged from the bathroom, negotiated the obstacles in his path, and made it back to his bed safe and sound.

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* * *

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"**Skipper?" the girl called. "The overview is ready for you."**

"**Good work," she said approvingly, crossing the dark red flooring. She stopped behind the chair and read the display slowly. "This, however, is… not good." **

**She stood, thinking for a long moment, before crossing to the comms piece and taking it down. She pushed the switch on the side and took a deep breath.**

"**All hands; this is the Pilot speaking. We have a Code Yellow situation. I repeat, we have a Code Yellow situation. All hands to stations. Allstation heads to their comms. Stand by for orders from High Command. Pilot out."**

**She hung the mouthpiece back on the wall, crossing to the monitors again.**

"**By all that's holey," she sighed, shaking her head. "We'll need High Command to navigate us out of these treacherous reefs."**

"**Can we… Will we be alright, Skipper?"**

**The Pilot looked down at the girl on duty. "How long have you been here, girl?"**

"**Three months," she said immediately. "I replaced Iota-Five."**

"**Ah yes. She was good. You are too," she nodded. "Well, Iota-Six, listen to me very carefully." She looked around the small operations centre, straightening her shoulders and lacing her hands behind her back. "In fact, all of you listen to me very carefully."**

**Female heads and pony tails moved and bounced until every monitor-watching crew member had their full attention on her. She cleared her throat.**

"**I have been the pilot of this vessel for thirty-one years. I have seen all kinds of trouble, all manner of high seas, rocky shores - not to mention hostile creatures that I'm not even sure existed once we were shot of them. But there's one thing I am very sure of."**

"**Yes, Skipper?" Iota-Six asked hopefully.**

"**I am not watching the good ship **_**Dean Winchester**_** go down because we didn't jump-to when needed. This is not going to beat us. This will **_**not**_** be our iceberg."**

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_Thanks for reading, people. :) We're off again - weeeeee!_


	2. Two

**Two**

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Sam was out of the shower and dressed before Dean had a crack at the bathroom himself. The younger Winchester did his best to stop worrying over the amount of time his brother actually spent in the bathroom, especially as he heard toilets and taps going at least twice before the door opened.

"So, what are we looking at for breakfast?" Dean asked hopefully.

"_I_ am looking at going to the local school. _You_ are looking at a small office across the road," Sam said politely.

Dean went to his duffle on his bed, picking it up to rifle through it slowly. "Why, what's in there?" he asked.

"Ah… It's a doctor's office," his brother said, with due apprehension and nervousness.

Dean let go of everything in his hands and it tumbled to the bed. He turned slowly until he had his little brother pinned in his sights. "And how does a doctor's office help us look for this werewolf?"

Sam could already see the ire fighting its way to the surface, but he ploughed on anyway. "It helps us because you can find out what's wrong with you and we can get this case done without worrying you're going to drop dead."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on, man. There is something wrong with you and it is not helping me if you suddenly need to run off and pee right in the middle of shooting a werewolf. Or are you planning on drinking silver Absolut so you can just piss over it?" Sam demanded angrily.

"One, you ain't even found out who this werewolf _is_ yet, and two, keep your nose out of my personal space," Dean growled.

"Personal space?" Sam protested. "You have got to be kidding me! We spend more time together than a married couple! Dude - you pee with the door open! You ninja my toothbrush!"

"Alright, Samantha, calm down," Dean interrupted, his hand up. "Let's just get to this school and pick us a werewolf."

"You get to the doctor's clinic first."

"Bite me."

"The werewolf might if you suddenly have to take a pee break."

"Sam, don't start," Dean threatened.

Sam noticed Dean's shoulders, already squared and ready to very quickly shift into physical defence mode. He sighed and turned back to his duffle.

"Ok. But later this week when you're in hospital with kidney failure, don't say I didn't warn you," he allowed quietly. "I'm surprised you even have a liver left."

"Just - just shut up," Dean blustered with blatant discomfort, hastily grabbing all of his belongings and stuffing them back into his duffle. He zipped it up, left it on the bed, and stormed toward the motel door. Snatching up the Impala keys from the dish, he didn't look back as he stomped out and across the car park.

Sam pouted for an Olympic medal before he dropped his sealed duffle and picked up his jacket. He followed his brother, much more quietly, closing the door behind him.

.

* * *

.

"**Adrenaline Control reports a spike," Iota-Six said suddenly.**

**The Pilot came over quickly, bending to see the readouts. "Not too serious. Do we have a response from High Command yet?"**

**Iota-Six's fingers flew deftly over the keypads in front of her. "Not yet, Skipper."**

"**Hmm." She thought for a moment. "Show me Stress Central. Can we get anything from EP?"**

**Iota-Six brought up the required screen on her monitor. "We have Stress Central, but communications with Emotional Processing are down."**

"**Down? How can they be down?" the Pilot demanded. She turned and crossed the red grating, snatching up the comms piece. "Stress Central, this is the Pilot," she snapped.**

**She waited impatiently. Eventually there was a slight click.**

"**Stress Central - apologies for the delay, Skipper."**

"**What's going on down there? We can't get into Emotional Processing from here."**

"**Neither can we, Skipper. There's been a total lockdown of the entire Emotional Processing station."**

"**What? Who authorised that?" the Pilot gasped.**

"**We don't know - but we can't get the comms online in there and the door is sealed!"**

"**Holey pores! Well… Do you want a team down there to cut it open?"**

"**Not at this time, Skipper. We'd like to try coaxing it open first. We have a few endorphin agents ready to have a crack."**

"**That's chemical warfare," she smiled. "I like it. Let me know how it goes. We need EP back online if we're to figure out how to get this ship back to rights."**

"**Aye, Skipper."**

**The Pilot put the comms piece down. "This is looking worse and worse," she muttered to herself. "I haven't seen a complete Emotional Processing lockdown since just before those Hellish reefs in 2008…" She put her hands behind her back and strode back to Iota-Six's station. "Anything from High Command?"**

"**Nothing, Skipper," she replied quietly. **

"**Right then. We wait. Maintain a Code Yellow. But… be ready to jump to Red."**

"**Aye, Skipper."**

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* * *

.

Sam and Dean walked into the school, their dark suits and shined shoes catching attention as they stopped at the main reception desk.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" said a polite voice, and they looked down to see a sunny young lady watching them with curiosity.

"I certainly hope so," Sam said with a smile that registered at least an eight point eight on the Suave-o-meter. He pulled a black fold-over wallet from his inside jacket pocket. "I'm Mr Raimi from the Education Bureau. This is my colleague, Mr Campbell. We'd like to see the employment files on all your teachers, please."

"Oh! Right! Ah - please, take a seat. I'll have to make sure the Principal knows you're here, and it'll take me a few minutes to get them together," she blurted. "We don't have them on computer, you see, so--"

"It's no trouble," Dean interrupted, waving a hand at her. "We're not in a hurry. In fact, do you have a washroom near here?"

"Yes - just down that corridor there," she said, relieved. "The Men's is the second door on your right."

"Thanks," Dean winked, tapping the top of the counter before heading off in that direction. Sam watched him go, then turned back to her.

"Can I help you with those files at all?" he asked warmly. She gazed up at him before she swallowed in as concealed a manner as possible.

"Um, ok," she managed brightly.

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* * *

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Dean pushed into the door to the men's washroom, finding it a very clean place that smelt of High School and Swisher air fresheners. He surveyed the room before passing the mirrors to the first urinal.

Having relieved himself he went to the sinks, washing his hands thoroughly. He looked up as he reached for the paper towels from the dispenser next to him. His eyes caught his reflection in the mirror and he paused. He stared at his own face critically, taking in the paler-than-normal cheeks, the whites of his eyes that were beginning to look grey. He shifted his eyes left to right to double check no-one else was present before sticking his tongue out. He frowned at the beige tinge to it, where he remembered it to be red as cranberry in a prospective one-night-stand's drink.

He closed his mouth quickly, drying his hands off and dumping the paper in the swing bin next to him. He felt his shirt collar, pulling it slightly straight as he swept all his discomfort to one side.

"In the long run, it ain't going to matter anyway," he sighed, and walked out of the small room.

He bumped into someone passing in the corridor.

"Whoa, hey! Sorry!" he blurted, catching at the arm to stop them flailing across the walkway.

He heard a hiss and looked round. A slightly older woman with long, chestnut hair was pulling her bare arm free from his hand with distaste.

"No harm done, I'm sure," she managed, looking up at him and forcing her face to turn grateful.

"Uh - Education Bureau," he said swiftly, realising she was watching him with more interest now that they were both stationary and upright. "Mr Campbell."

She began to smile in much more relaxed manner. "Claire Barnes, Department Head," she allowed. Dean put his hand out and she looked at it before shaking it. "And how long are you here for, Mr Campbell?"

"Oh, just a few days," he said, letting their hands drop.

"Taking in the sights of our fair township?" she teased. "Not exactly a bustling environment worthy of further investigation."

"Yeah, well," he allowed, his head tilting in suave deprecation, "this places moves about as fast as I need right now."

Her smile slipped a tad and her eyes ran over his profile as he risked a look over his shoulder, presumably at the other man in the dark suit at the reception desk. He turned back to her and she repaired her smile quickly.

"Sounds like the Education Department works you too hard," she offered. "Is this some kind of mass audit for staff or something?"

"Oh, nothing serious, in the big picture. We were told to come down and check everyone's got a Green Card and a real degree, you know how it is," he nodded.

She nodded, shrugging with a small smile. "Well then. Maybe I'll see you again. Before you leave."

"If I'm lucky," he grinned.

Her eyes dropped to his shoes before she pushed hair behind her ear coyly, and took herself off as fast as was polite.

Dean's eyebrow jumped upward in a high-five with his ego before he cleared his throat and straightened his jacket. He began to walk back to the desk. He found his brother chatting merrily with the desk girl and looked around. Finding the chairs on the opposite side of the corridor he wandered over and sat slowly. He waited, his thoughts wandering to the teacher.

He smiled.

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* * *

.

Sam and Dean traipsed back to the Impala, two cardboard boxes of files between them. They shoved them onto the back seat before Sam slid into the car quickly. Dean stripped off his black suit jacket to similarly stow it in the vehicle.

He climbed in and pushed the key in the ignition as Sam reached over the seat and picked up the first file. He opened it on his knees, the Impala reversing out and round.

"Thirty-five teachers, no immediate suspects," Sam muttered to himself.

"I vote I check Claire Barnes very carefully," Dean nodded to himself, steering the car out onto the street.

"Why's that?"

"Bumped into her coming back from the Men's. She's definitely worth further study."

"Dude…" Sam huffed. "Forget it. Why do I even bother?"

"Bother with what?" he asked innocently.

Sam opened his mouth, then stopped himself. A tiny, shiny smile of genius flitted across his features and he cleared his throat, making his expression morph into one of serious professionalism. "You do realise that… well… if you get this Claire Barnes girl round to your way of thinking, and she actually likes you…"

"What?"

"How's it going to look if you need like three pitstops before gettin' it on? Or in fact _during_?" Sam grinned.

Dean's face drained of colour. He didn't speak for some moments, and Sam was already patting himself on the back for having got through to him.

"Se-seriously? You think it'll--." Dean cleared his throat, and Sam distinctly heard the barriers slamming down over his brother's plea for help, calling him weak as they did so. "Quit trying to annoy me."

"Whatever," Sam agreed airily, forcing diffidence where there was concern. "Just don't say I didn't tell you so when she's leaving early."

Dean growled something unintelligible at his brother before gripping the wheel more tightly. The car sped up slightly, and they were back at the motel before the driver had had a chance to calm down.

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_Thanks for reading, people! And I **really appreciate** all feedback and reviews_. :)


	3. Three

**Three**

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Moonlight streamed in through the motel window and looked everything over very carefully. It found the two beds, the sleeping men, the personal effects and accoutrements lying around the room. It enjoyed its slide over the side of Dean's face, slipping off and onto his shoulder, almost glowing a dull silver in the gloom.

Dean grunted and shifted, disturbing the light on his skin. He threw himself over to sleep on his right side, letting the light of the wee hours smooth over his shoulder blades instead. Suddenly he blinked his eyes open. He sat up, threw his legs over the side of the bed, and rubbed at his eyes before standing and making for the bathroom.

He successfully negotiated Sam's bed and the doorjamb beyond. He also managed to relieve himself without spraying the interior of a washroom lit only by faded moonlight. He washed his hands before his foot came up and his toes pulled the seat down. He sat heavily, one elbow on his knee and the attached hand in his hair, as he let a million thoughts tumble through his weary brain.

"**Skipper!" Iota-Six cried, relieved. "Emotional Processing is back online! We're showing huge levels of Worry and the Fear index is climbing."**

**The Pilot hurried over and looked for herself. She spun and found the comms piece, snatching it up and on. "Stress Central, this is the Pilot," she snapped. "We've got EP online but we have a Fear index problem."**

"**Pilot, this is Stress Central. Fear index rating confirmed. We don't know how long we can keep the door to Emotional Processing open!"**

"**What do you mean?"**

"**It wasn't us! We didn't open the door, the ship did!"**

"**Understood. Any idea how to keep it open?"**

"**No idea - we'll try everything, Skipper."**

"**Good girl. Keep me informed."**

"**Skipper," Iota-Six called. "Adrenaline Control reports a flatline and Logistics Interface reports the flush of ballast a few minutes ago is the last of the available fluids. Detoxification Centre is demanding more to purge the rest of the alcohol but we have no more fluids on board. We're losing the door to EP!"**

"**Empty follicles!" the Pilot swore, hanging up the comms piece. "Iota-Six - show me the complete timelines of all reports. Overlay."**

"**Aye, Skipper." Her fingers flew and the reports appeared as ordered.**

**The Pilot hurried over and surveyed them. "This ship is running seriously dry. If it doesn't get plain water in a matter of hours, they'll start to lose life support in the Detoxification Centre!"**

"**Do we evacuate the Detox Centre?"**

"**Any word from High Command?"**

"**None, Skipper."**

"**Bugger!"**

"**What do we do?" Iota-Six asked quickly. When there was no reply, she turned her chair to look at her tall pilot. "What do we do?"**

**The Pilot went back to the comms piece. She opened it up. "All hands, this is the Pilot speaking. We have a Code Red. I repeat, we have a Code Red. All hands remain at stations. Seal all entrances and exits, keep all comms and monitors online and connected. This is it, ladies. We have a Code Red and we do not downgrade until this ship, the **_**Dean Winchester**_**, is back to fighting fitness. All stations: prepare to transfer direct control to this Ops Centre. On your toes, people."**

**She swallowed and hung the comms piece back up. She turned and found the entire female complement of crew members watching her.**

"**We've sailed through this kind of thing before, and we'll do it again," she said confidently. "To your stations, ladies. We have work to do."**

A tiny bump sound made Dean's head snap up from his position of sulking. He stood quickly, moving to the bathroom door as he heard it again. He kept behind the door, inching his head to the end. He let one eye slip just proud of the edge.

A dark shape hurled itself at his bed. It bounced, finding it empty.

Dean flung the door open as the figure turned on the other, occupied bed.

"_Saaauum!_" he bellowed. He leapt at the form. His arms clamped round the upper torso. It pinned the arms to its sides. They went down in a heap against the bed.

Sam flailed out of the opposite side of the blankets in his t-shirt and Calvin's. He grabbed up his duffle, his handgun ready. He threw himself over the edge of the bed. Sounds of snapping, snarling, growling, struggling. He cocked the gun and approached carefully.

"**Skipper! Adrenaline Control reports levels off the charts and staying there!" Iota-Six squeaked.**

**The Pilot rushed over. "No no no - it'll blow the Stress Central seals--"**

Dean grappled and pulled. The figure rolled them off the far side of the bed. It whipped around and gripped. The human was pulled off and ejected across the carpet.

"Dean! Get clear!" Sam roared. He lifted the gun.

The hairy creature stood tall. Its arms opened, its clawed hands splayed. It bayed in anger at the Winchester with the gun.

"Werewolf!" Sam gasped. "How did it--"

The form sprang. It collided with Sam. Claws flashed.

Dean was on his feet. He dived for his bed. His hand went under his pillow. He pulled out the gun as he shoved his feet at the carpet. He twisted, straightened, aimed.

"**Adrenaline Control reports imminent Cardiac Services spike!" Iota-Six cried fearfully.**

"**Rating?"**

"**They're predicting seven to nine!"**

"**Stress Central - are they still sealed?"**

"**Negative - Adrenaline Control reports seals blowing all over the ship! We're at critical!"**

"**Impulse Control?"**

"**Not responding!"**

"**Adrenaline Control?"**

"**Not responding! They're no longer in control, Skipper!"**

Dean felt his heart beating fit to leap out of his chest. He kept the werewolf in the gun's sights. "Sam - get it off!"

"I'm - trying!" Sam raged. The two of them rolled. Sam's bare feet came up. The werewolf was propelled to the wall. Sam scrambled back as fast as he could. "Shoot it!" he called, eyes pinned to the creature. "_Shoot it!_"

"**Cardiac Services spike imminent!" Iota-Six cried.**

**The Pilot stood back and cleared her mind. She lifted her chin. "Iota-Six, commence Total System Shutdown. Now."**

"**Skipper!"**

"**Now! While we still have a ship to save! **_**Pull the plug!**_**"**

"**Initiating Total System Shutdown!"**

**Her fingers flew over the keypad. Hydraulics and alarm sounds hissed and shrieked all round them. Girls lifted their hands away from their control pads in shock.**

The werewolf was recovering its feet. It saw Dean and his gun. It plastered itself back against the wall. It drew in a deep breath laced with anger, coiled its legs to spring.

"Shoot it!" Sam shouted, dismayed at his brother's delay.

He looked at Dean. As Sam watched, agog, his brother's eyes rolled up in his head. The very next second the human melted as if his bones were made of marshmallow.

He crashed into the carpet. His gun bounced off the bed and landed by Sam's foot.

**The Pilot watched the readouts on Iota-Six's monitor, ducking the sudden release of pressure from an over-emotional valve by her head.**

"**I-Six - report!" she commanded.**

"**Total System Shutdown complete, Skipper," she said. "We are at a dead stop."**

"**Good. Lock it off, I-Six. We will remain so until we re-establish links with all stations, and can confirm all ratings and indices are back to normal levels."**

"**Aye, Skipper."**

Sam closed his gaping mouth. He snatched up the gun. He turned and fired.

The werewolf sprang at the beds. It bounded across the room as if jet-propelled. Sam fired again and again. Every shot winged the creature but failed to find its heart.

It smashed through the half-open door and was gone.

Sam let his gun hand drop. He turned and sped to his fallen brother, slinging the Colt 1911 to the carpet and grabbing Dean's head. He turned it and his thumb went to an eyelid, dragging it up.

"What the Hell, man?" Sam breathed. He put a hand to his brother's pulse, found it racing, and let him back to the carpet. He sat back on his heels, his hands resting on his legs, as he watched his unconscious brother. "I _told_ you there was something wrong," he grumped.

.

* * *

.

Dean opened an eye, unable to remember where he had fallen asleep. Realising quite rightly that this was less of a surprise and more of a lifestyle choice, he cocked the eye at the motel room.

"This is new," he managed. He opened his other eye and hiked himself up on his elbows.

"You're awake. Get up," Sam snapped.

The vehemence surprised Dean but the way his brother pouted at him did not. He pushed himself up to sit, found himself still in nothing but black Calvin Klein's, and rubbed a hand over his face. "Werewolf?" he prompted.

"Gone."

"Dead-gone or escaped-gone?"

"Escaped-gone. I missed."

"Bitch."

"This isn't funny, Dean!" Sam exploded.

Dean's eyebrows went for his hairline in a big way, his hand freezing on his chin as he let the gravity of his brother's anger register. "What?" he managed.

"What? You're sat on the floor, man!" he accused. "You didn't shoot at the wolf, _I_ did! Cos you just passed out like some prom date whose dress is too tight!"

Dean blinked with anger at the allusion and then abruptly worked out Sam's motivation. He got to his feet, noticing both bags were nearly packed and his clothes had been dumped on his bed. "I was tir--"

"Don't," Sam warned, turning to face him. "Just don't. I am sick of you _lying_ to me, Dean. Just don't. Drink and die, or go easy on the whisky and quit passing out - it's _your_ choice!" Sam accused, his voice thick with rage. "You know what pisses me off the most?"

Dean's face took on the carefully-crafted look of innocent bemusement that, when worn during these stand-offs, only fuelled Sam's desire to knock him to the ground. "Whisky's more expensive than beer?"

"Cute," Sam shot back, and Dean realised the anger was being stoked by hurt, or perhaps… fear. "No, what pisses _me_ off is that I know what your face would look like if you woke up and found I'd been clawed into pieces cos _you passed out before you could shoot a damn werewolf!_" Sam's chest heaved with anger, words tumbling from his mouth without being checked by his brain or conscience first. "It's not exactly a hard gig, is it? It's not a demon or a shapeshifter, it's just a werewolf! And you nearly let one rake your brother into shreds! What's the matter, you had your fifteen minutes of Hellhound chew-toy fame so you thought I could share in the experience?"

"What the--"

"Just shut up! Get dressed! We are leaving before the police arrive to ask why I fired your gun seven times and why the bullets were made of silver!"

He swung the duffle onto his shoulder and stalked past Dean. His shoulder rammed into his but he didn't pause. He simply whisked up the keys and stormed out of the room, the door closing noisily behind him.

Dean didn't turn. He didn't acknowledge him gone. He stood, thinking for a long minute. Cut to the quick, with only embarrassment or discomfort left - he wasn't sure which one he would choose to describe his current position, on the carpet in his underwear, cold fear at his brother's words prickling over his shoulders. He felt the touch of panic, the dread realisation he was no longer on shaky ground but already hearing the cracks in the ice under his feet. The pressure was mountainous, the light on the other side of those jagged peaks simply too far away for any sign of hope.

Standing on the brink, he teetered between Sam's words and his own methods of taking care of himself. _Why do I bother?_ He swayed dangerously close to the precipice reserved for those with no more will left.

_Do I care? _Can_ I care any more? Should I?_

His face lost its animation, his shoulders drooped and he let it all just bleed away.

The cold cloud of impassiveness wrapped around him tightly, even as a single thought nagged at him that he had chosen poorly. _But… he's Sam… Is it too late to_--

Dense bloody-mindedness, compounded by the only way he knew how to look after himself, shielded him from every thought, every feeling with which he struggled, attempting to wrangle them into the right shape to latch on to something stable once more. He picked up his jeans and began to pull them on with calm, controlled movements.

"**Report, I-Six," the Pilot asked quietly.**

"**Levels have returned to normal across the board. Still no answer from Emotional Processing. We're completely locked out, Skipper."**

"**Hmm. This is worse than we thought. If all the stations are back to working levels apart from EP…" She took a deep breath. "And there's still nothing from High Command?" she demanded irritably.**

"**Nothing, Skipper. Not even an acknowledgement."**

**She huffed and turned to the comms piece in the centre of the decking. She reached out and snatched it up. "High Command, this is the Pilot speaking. Please respond."**

**She waited. Every face in the room watched her. She counted off the seconds.**

"**High Command, please respond. We have a situation, here."**

**At last a slight click was heard. "Yeah'ello. I mean, ah, go ahead."**

**Every single crew member forestalled a gasp at the **_**man's**_** voice that echoed round the room.**

**The Pilot cleared her throat. "Might I know how to address you, **_**sir**_**?" she dared.**

"**High Command," came the amused response. The voice was laced with charm, with ambivalence… and authority.**

"**Yes, sir. Well I sent some reports about the condition of the **_**Dean Winchester**_**, sir. We're in serious trouble and I requested guidance."**

"**Trouble? I don't see any trouble," came the suave reply. "In fact, everything looks fine to me."**

"**But sir… We've had system failures and seals rupture all over the ship! I had to order a Total System Shutdown to prevent Cardiac Services from--"**

"**Pilot - sweetheart - listen to me," came the charming interruption. "I'm checking the readouts you sent, darlin', and to be honest… I got nothin'."**

**She swallowed. "Who is this?" she asked quietly. "There **_**are**_** no males on board. It's ship's regulations. Who are you, what have you done with High Command?"**

"**You know who this is," came the confident, charismatic rumble. "I had to relieve the poor girl here before. She was too stressed. Sent her out to fetch us some pie."**

"**Then… you are…?"**

"**I'm in charge now, sweetheart," she heard, and in the thick of the nonchalance she could positively **_**feel**_** the saucy wink in his voice. "Anything you want, you just let me know. You know where I am. Oh, word to the wise?" he added. "Bring a cheeseburger. I promise I'll listen."**

**The connection clicked off and she stared at the comms piece in horror.**

"**Oh my soles," she whispered. She stumbled back a step, grabbing onto the hook for the comms piece before turning and hanging it back.**

"**Skipper?" Iota-Six asked quietly.**

**The Pilot turned and looked at her, the older woman's face white with fear. **

"**Skipper? What is it?"**

"**High Command," the Pilot whispered. She cleared her throat. "High Command has been replaced."**

"**By whom?" she gasped.**

"**I could be wrong," she managed, trying very hard to make sure her voice didn't shake, "but I think it's the spirit of the ship."**

"**The spirit of the ship?"**

"**Yes. Free Will."**

"**Is that bad?" Iota-Six managed.**

"**Put it this way," the Pilot said, coming back to her monitors and looking down at them, "we're not getting any help. Free Will is in control of EP - and now potentially the whole ship. And he's not letting go, which means there's something seriously wrong with him. He's not supposed to be in charge of **_**anything**_** without Emotional Processing's input. We're going to have to do this all by ourselves."**

"**Do what?" Iota-Six blurted.**

"**Take back the ship. Free Will doesn't realise this, but he's a few blown seals away from scuttling his own vessel. He can't see it, doesn't **_**want**_** to see it - that's why he shut down EP. Well I'm not letting him destroy his own ship." She straightened her shoulders. "We're taking back the **_**Dean Winchester**_**. We're keeping it afloat and we're doing it despite the wishes of the ship's own Free Will."**

.

.

* * *

_Heee! Chapters 3 and 4 up today. Hope it's making everything clearer! :)_


	4. Four

**Four**

.

The afternoon saw Sam picking at a salad and Dean staring into space.

"Hey," Sam mumbled, pre-occupied.

"Hmm?"

"That school teacher on your To Do List? She started at the school five years ago and has an exemplary record," Sam said, turning the manila file round and pushing it toward his brother.

Dean blinked and his attention was summarily wrenched from whatever was causing the silent furrow in his brow. He leaned forward across the Starbuck's table and pulled the file toward him, casting his eyes down the employment details. "Hmm," he grunted.

Sam put his plastic fork down and instead picked up the coffee. "Thought you wanted to stop for food?" he said cautiously, noticing both Dean's coffee and apple pie were untouched on the table.

"Just not feeling it," he muttered, re-reading the page in an effort to ignore his brother.

"Right," Sam sighed.

"What now?" Dean asked, strangely lacking an ire.

"Nothing," Sam said cheerfully. "Nothing at all." He paused, picking up his fork and getting at least some lettuce in him before dropping it again. He cleared his throat quietly, eyeing the apple pie screaming to be eaten. His eyes rolled up to appraise his brother, then back down at the pie. Great plans and machinations were outlined, fought over, voted on, and eventually pared down to one. It was ratified and Sam cleared his throat. "If you're not going to eat that…"

"What?" Dean asked mildly.

The lack of aggression surprised Sam. But he would not be deterred. "Well it'd be stupid to waste it. If you're not going to eat it, I will."

He leaned forward and picked it up quickly, hoping for the argument about 'coming between a man and his pie', the umbrage, the successful execution of Operation Get Dean To Eat.

Dean's eyes flicked at the pie, then back to the file in front of him. "Knock yourself out," he shrugged.

Sam paused, assessed his brother's face, realised it was not a prank, and pulled the pie over to him anyway. He picked up his fork, sucked it clean of salad dressing, and stuck it into the pie with as much flourish as he could.

"Think I will," he said, apparently well pleased as the dessert hit the inside of his mouth.

Dean didn't even blink. "Good for you." He turned the page in the file, his eyes on the type.

Sam frowned. He did not do this lightly. Incredible forces of muscle control and emotional mastery were brought to bear.

Dean flicked his eyes up and did a double-take. "What? It don't taste right?" he asked, several shades of surprise lacking in his voice.

"Something like that," Sam managed. He sighed even as he shovelled more pie into his mouth. "Look, I can't find a good candidate for lycanthropy anywhere in that employment list."

"Then we go back to the school, do some digging."

"Now?" Sam asked, affecting his best, most impressive worried almost-smile.

"Now. Why?"

"I haven't finished the pie," he smiled apologetically.

"Like that's important," Dean sighed, getting to his feet. He picked up the files and the car keys, turning and walked away to the car.

Sam stared after him, every muscle frozen. "Holy crap," he mumbled round the apple filling in his mouth, "it's worse than I thought."

.

* * *

.

**The Pilot paced the red decking slowly, her head watching her boots, her hands clasped behind her back. She ignored how every female head in the place was watching her, trying not to, as they wondered just what to do next.**

**She stopped abruptly and went to the comms piece on the hook in the centre of the room. She flipped the switch up. "Adrenaline Control, this is the Pilot."**

"**Adrenaline Control, Skipper."**

"**Level report?"**

"**We're still seeping fluids here, Skipper. We can barely keep the levels up to minimum."**

"**So what you're saying is, this ship is losing the will to fight?"**

"**Aye, Skipper. I can't explain it - normally we have a surplus."**

"**Oh, I can explain it alright. Thank you, Adrenaline Control. Alert me the moment it sinks below safety tolerances."**

"**Aye, Skipper."**

**She flipped off the switch.**

"**Skipper?" Iota-Six asked quietly. The Pilot turned to look at her. "Why are we losing adrenaline?"**

"**EP," she sighed. "Emotional Processing. It's shut down so nothing's being considered on an emotional level. And with High Command gone and Free Will keeping EP locked down, we can't get in to use that station to help us fight back."**

"**So… what do we do?"**

**The Pilot looked at the comms piece in her hand. She cleared her throat, tossed her plaited blond hair over her shoulder, and flipped the switch up. "High Command, this is the Pilot. Please respond."**

**There was a silence.**

"**High Command, this is the Pilot. Please respond." She tapped her foot.**

"**Afternoon, sweetheart," came the charming reply. "Something I can do for you?"**

"**You can listen to me for one minute," she said firmly. "You are scuttling your own ship. Do you understand that?"**

"**Absolutely," the voice replied. "It is mine, after all. Sorry about everyone who's worked here for so long - I really do appreciate it. But it's time this ship was decommissioned."**

"**What?" she gasped. "You seriously want to--"**

"**Hey, what can I say?" the male voice butted in. "It's been a long thirty-one years and it ain't all been happy. I'm done with it, bowing out. Thanks, but we're done here."**

**The connection was cut. Her lips thinned into a flat expression of indignation. She drew herself up and flipped the switch again.**

"**High Command - or should I say, Free Will," she snapped. "Listen to me carefully. You may not have any fight left, but we do. You want to scuttle this ship? Fine. But you're not taking all of us down with you, you **_**selfish bastard**_**."**

"**Oooh, sounds like fighting talk," the suave reply cut in.**

"**It is."**

"**You're going to fight **_**me**_** on this, darlin'?"**

"**Yes. We all are. You are the sum of your parts, Free Will. And we're your parts."**

"**Kinky," he oiled, and she heard the grin in his voice. "And just how are you going to win against me, the commander of the ship?"**

"**You're **_**not**_** the commander of the ship, you just relieved her. And you forget: we know you like you do," she stated. "And we fight **_**dirty**_**."**

"**Oooh," came the charming, husky sound of appreciation. "Bring it on, sweetheart. I like a woman with spirit."**

**The Pilot hung up the comms device and folded her arms. She spun to look at all the female engineers, crew members and comms officers watching her. She saw determination, trust, faith. And hope.**

"**The battle is joined, ladies," she said, with a wide smile of authority. "And we're going to **_**win**_**."**

.

* * *

.

Sam and Dean walked into the school, suits and shiny shoes making people stop and look at them. They found the reception desk and Sam leaned on it, making eye contact with the girl behind.

"Hey, Veronica," he said warmly.

She looked up. "Oh! Mr Raimi! Hello," she beamed. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Actually? Yeah," he said cheerfully. "We've come to return your files, but… well it'd be a shame to pass up and opportunity to check in with you," he added.

_Go for it, Sammy,_ Dean thought idly. He turned away from the desk, hands in his trouser pockets, to look around. He noticed someone coming from the corridor by the washroom doors and smiled.

Claire Barnes walked down the hall with books in her arms. She paused as she realised a tall, wide man in a dark suit was watching her.

"Afternoon, Mr Campbell," she smiled. "Here we are again." She stopped in front of him.

"It looks that way," he said amiably.

"**Skipper - Adrenaline Control reports a tiny blip."**

"**Enough to use to get more?"**

"**Possibly, but Adrenaline Control is not sure how."**

"**Is it a fight or flight blip?"**

"**Neither, Skipper. It almost made a move to rush downwards."**

"**Downwards…? Excellent!" She went to the comms piece and snatched it up. "Adrenaline Control!" she snapped. "Deploy pheromones - **_**now!**_**"**

"**Aye aye!"**

**She waited. And waited. **

"**Pheromones away, Skipper!" came the report. "We're showing responding pheromones - incoming!" Another pause. "Testosterone levels climbing. Adrenaline levels reaching normal parameters."**

"**Let's see where that gets us!" she grinned, flipping off the comms piece.**

"So you really sat there and went through lots of boring files?" Claire teased, hovering a little closer to Dean.

"Yeah," he replied, smelling her perfume and deciding things could be worse.

She stole a step closer. "Don't tell me you're leaving so soon? We never got the chance to learn first names."

"Sparkly," he rumbled, his eyes going to the necklace and pendant.

"Sorry?" she grinned.

"Your - uhm - necklace," he bumbled. "Sorry - distracted me for a--"

"What, this?" she asked, putting her fingers under the heavy crystal and lifting it. Her fingers brushed the low collar of her cotton top as she did so.

Dean bit his lip. "Mmm-hmm," he confirmed, swallowing the sudden urge to step all the way closer.

"**Now, Adrenaline Control! All the testosterone you've got! Dump it! Dump it!" the Pilot called.**

"**Going and - gone!" Adrenaline Control reported, pleased. "Complete load is away!"**

"**And? Levels?" the Pilot demanded of Iota-Six.**

"**Cardiac Services coming online - Logistics reports blood rushing down, Skipper. Adrenaline Control shows contiguous systems affected and heating up. All stations report a leap in activity!"**

"**Excellent - what about EP?"**

"**Still locked down."**

"**So we're running on Impulse," she nodded. "That'll do for now. Adrenaline Control," she snapped, "do all you can to keep those testosterone levels up!"**

"**Aye!"**

"This pendant has been in the family for generations," Claire smiled. She let it drop back to her chest. "So you're still in town tonight?"

"I could be," he managed. He felt the heat in his face, and more importantly, certain other parts in his nether regions that were doing their best to show they voted he stay, too.

"Good. Then maybe we can meet up later. I'm sure there are things you want to ask me about this place," she said smoothly.

"Oh yeah," he breathed, feeling his heart start to race.

"Well you can have my number then," she smiled. She handed him the books and he stood there dumbly, trying to keep his throat lubricated as she pulled out a pen. She patted at the sides of her well-fitted dress and then looked at him. "Do you have paper?"

"Uh - not on me," he managed, hearing his voice coming out rough.

She didn't appear to notice. "Fine." She put her hand out and peeled his left one off the books. He let them slide to his right hand as she pulled the other toward her. She ran her thumb over his hand firmly. "Are you a front or a back man?" she teased.

Dean's mouth very nearly fell wide open to unleash all kinds of promises. He drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment, watching the way she grinned slyly at him. "Uh - any way you want," he nodded professionally.

"Oooh," she winked, turning his hand over. She pulled the top off her pen with her teeth, sliding her eyes to him before leaning and writing her phone number on his palm.

He concentrated on the books in his other hand: cold and heavy, smelly and boring. It did no good. The warmth of her skin holding his, the tickle of the pen fibres, the smell of her perfume, the pattern of the flowers on her dress that _only just_ prevented him from confirming his Victoria's Secret theory, knowing she was so close--

"There," she said brightly. She took the pen cap from her teeth, pushing it back on. "All done."

"Nearly," Dean admitted guiltily. She raised her eyebrows at him. "Cos - ah - you don't have your books," he added quickly.

She giggled, taking them off him. Her fingers overlapped his and he stepped closer. She smiled at him, certainly not backing away.

There was the sound of someone clearing their throat. "Am I interrupting something?" Sam asked loudly.

Dean tore his gaze away. "Whut? Oh, no," he said quickly. "Claire, this is Mr Raimi," he said, waving his right, clean hand out.

"A pleasure," she said. "You work with Mr Campbell, here?"

"Ye-ah," Sam nodded, his bemused smile ping-ponging between the other two. "Sorry, but we have to be on our way."

"Oh, right, yes," she said quickly. "Well, Mr Campbell."

"Well," Dean nodded, as if he had no idea where to put himself.

She flashed a smile at him before stepping away and walking quickly down the corridor beyond.

Sam stepped round until he was looking at his brother. He folded his arms deliberately, waiting for Dean to stop watching the retreating female.

Eventually, Dean looked back at him. Instead of his usual lewd self, Dean actually appeared confused, his eyebrows gathering together in helplessness. Sam's peripheral vision realised something and he flicked his eyes up to the ceiling quickly.

"Dude," he said quietly. "You got a class one bon--"

"I know!" Dean hissed worriedly, "I'm attached to it, ain't I?"

"Is she really that hot?" Sam asked mildly, looking down the corridor the way she had gone.

"Can we get out of here please?" Dean snapped, and Sam smiled at the way he came closer to his old self.

"Sure. You want a folder?" he asked maliciously.

Dean stepped back and put his hand out blindly. He swiped a large manila affair from the top of Veronica's desk. "Shut up," he growled at his brother, holding the folder in front of his trouser belt casually as he turned and strode off, a little awkwardly, toward the doors.

Sam looked back at Veronica with a smile. "Thanks. We'll be back to return the rest of the stuff."

"I think I'll hold you to that," she winked.

.

* * *

.

"**Pilot, honey, what are you doing?" came the suave yet unsure voice from above. **

**The Pilot went to the comms piece and picked it up. "Whatever I need to do to win, Free Will," she said maliciously.**

"**You don't go round growing one on a man while he's--"**

"**Told you we fought **_**dirty**_**," she reminded him with a large smile and a huge load of satisfaction. "How do you like **_**them**_** apples?"**

.

.

* * *

_Thanks for reading so far and reviewing, people! I really luffs you!_


	5. Five

**Five**

.

**The Pilot looked around the decking with renewed determination. "You see that?" she said with confidence. "Free Will isn't in command at all. We still have control of some of the ship's functions. But we do need help." She crossed the decking to the large monitor in the dark corner. "Emergency comms," she said smartly.**

**The girl sat at the terminal - sporting short, fashionably tousled brown hair and a worried grimace - keyed in commands at high speed. "Ready, Skipper," she said.**

**The Pilot went back to the centre stanchion and took down the comms piece. She looked back at the girl. "What's your name?" she asked.**

"**Delta-Four, Skipper," she said proudly.**

"**Well then, Delta-Four - I need you to boost this transmission so that anyone outside will hear it."**

"**Skipper?" she asked, shocked.**

"**Do it. We need some help from the fleet."**

"**But… the comms isn't designed to--"**

"**Then get someone down here that can make it work," the Pilot said patiently.**

**Delta-Four heard the invitation for what it really was and bent here fingers to the keys, pressing as fast she she could. The Pilot folded her arms, taking a step back to prevent the poor girl from thinking she was hanging on her every key stroke. Which, of course, she was.**

**Minutes ticked by. The rest of the room had stopped to turn and watch. **

**The Pilot looked around. "Don't you have things to do?" she asked mildly.**

**All heads went back to their consoles.**

**Delta-Four's fine fingers flew over the keys one more time and then she looked back. "That's all we've got, Skipper."**

"**Excellent work! Let's test it." She cleared her throat and went back to the centre stanchion, flipping the switch up on the side of the comms mouthpiece. "To any ships that can hear me - this is the **_**Dean Winchester**_**. If any of the Winchester fleet can hear us, we need your help." She waited, counting the seconds. Then she sniffed and straightened her back. "I repeat: this is the **_**Dean Winchester**_**. We need assistance."**

**Silence reigned as if it were Queen Victoria herself. Everyone waited. Eventually the Pilot looked over at Delta-Four. **

"**Anything?" she asked hopefully.**

"**Nothing," Delta-Four replied quietly. "There's a lot of traffic out there, but nothing seems to be on our frequency."**

"**Can we change it?"**

"**We cannot, Skipper. It's fixed. Has been for thirty-one years."**

"**Bugger." She looked back at the comms piece and took a deep breath. "To any ships that can hear me - this is the **_**Dean Winchester**_**. We need assistance…"**

.

* * *

.

"_**Dean Winchester**_**, do you read me?" came a male voice.**

**All female crew members straightened from their slump caused by four hours of silence, punctuated by the Pilot's attempts to raise any outside voice on the radio. The Pilot dashed back to the comms piece, snatching it up and ramming up the switch.**

"**This is the Pilot of the **_**Dean Winchester**_**. We read you. Please identify yourself."**

"**This is the Captain of the **_**Sam Winchester**_**," was the cautious response. "Give us your ID tag, if you please. We want to make sure it's you."**

"**Of course. D one J two D three, oh one two four, one nine seven nine," the Pilot said quickly. "And now yours, please."**

"**S one, M two, S three, oh two oh five, one nine eight three," the voice replied. "How can we be of assistance, Pilot?"**

**She grinned uncontrollably, leaning her forehead against the centre stanchion for a second or two. "It's good to hear those words," she admitted. She ignored the looks of relief from the crew around her. "We're in dire straights, Captain. Free Will has usurped High Command and locked us out of Emotional Processing. We can't get adrenaline levels balanced and Free Will has made it very clear he's scuttling the ship." She paused, thinking. "Request advice on how to take back the vessel."**

**There was a long silence. The Pilot realised she was holding her breath.**

"**Free Will is scuttling the ship?" the Captain of the **_**Sam Winchester**_** dared.**

"**He is. He says it's time it's decommissioned," she added angrily.**

"**He can't do that."**

"**He thinks he can - he's trying to do that right now. We still have control over Impulse but nothing else while we're locked out of EP. Any ideas?" she dared.**

**Again, a long silence. "I can't believe the spirit of the ship wants it to go down… Did he give a reason?"**

"**He said it's been rough seas so far and he's had enough," she supplied.**

"**Well boo-friggin'-hoo," was the harsh response. "We haven't had such an easy time of it either, but we're still sailing. Came close to being torpedoed a few times, but here we are."**

"**How did you wrangle your ship's Free Will?" she asked curiously.**

"**Gave it what it wanted - told it we were still part of a fleet, gave it hope," was the response. "I've been Captain of this vessel for twenty-six years, and it's been part hand-holding, part ass-kicking, part finding the pieces and putting them back together. But the crew and I never gave up - because there was hope - and the idea of the fleet."**

"**Maybe that's the way to go with our Free Will," she mused. "By the way, how did you get permission for long-range comms outside of High Command?" she asked slowly.**

"**High Command? What's that?" he asked curiously.**

"**The ultimate power on the vessel… You don't have one, do you?" she realised.**

"**No. I'm the Captain, I'm all there is," he said curiously. "And you're a pilot, not a captain?"**

"**Guess I guide more than I command," she mused. "And I notice you have men over there - well, at least one," she smiled.**

"**Don't you?"**

"**Never seen one here," she replied thoughtfully.**

"**Huh," the Captain observed quietly.**

"**Huh," the Pilot agreed.**

"**Anyway, we'll do what we can to help, Pilot."**

"**Thanks, Captain. If we get out of this intact, the **_**Dean Winchester**_** will owe the **_**Sam Winchester**_** a huge debt of gratitude."**

"**Hey, we just want to keep what's left of the fleet going," he said, a little sadly. "We'll do what we can from here - maybe a little more adrenaline and emotional warfare on our side will trigger a response from your Free Will. We'll see what we can do to stir things up a little from our end."**

"**Captain, I cannot tell you how appreciated that is."**

"**You don't have to, Pilot. We're in charge of these buckets; we do what we can for what's left of the Winchester fleet."**

**On the **_**Dean Winchester,**_** the Pilot grinned and switched her comms off.**

**Over on the **_**Sam Winchester**_**, the Captain turned with purpose. He looked at the girl at the main control console. "Get me Adrenaline Control," he said. "I think we should turn it up to eleven."**

.

* * *

.

Sam and Dean made it back to the motel, take-out bags in their hands. Sam closed the door and went to his bed, bouncing down on it. He stretched over and set the brown bag on the table between the beds.

"So no teachers have been off sick today, and none show odd injuries that could have been caused by silver bullets skimming their limbs," Sam said flatly. "So whoever I hit last night, they were keeping it covered up."

Dean grunted, pulling his tie loose and landing heavily on the bed.

"I notice the lovely Claire Barnes had long sleeves on today," Sam added. "Maybe she's covering up wounds."

"Whatever," Dean shrugged.

"Don't you care? You were gonna jump her in the corridor, man," Sam protested.

"I was not."

"You were - you were like--" He put his finger and thumb up, an inch apart. "You were like _that_ close. It was disgusting!"

Dean just shrugged again.

"You know, I don't get it," Sam sighed in frustration. "I thought you'd be angry with me."

"Why?" he asked tonelessly.

"Cos we don't even know how the werewolf knew where we were, we're getting nowhere and I 'wasted' a few minutes hitting on the receptionist!"

"You were digging for gossip," Dean muttered, "and it worked. Pity all you found out is that one of the teachers has to be covering up wounds caused by silver." He got up and went into the bathroom.

Sam watched him go, his mouth half open in disbelief. He stood, blew out a huge huff that threatened to wind even him, and pulled off his suit jacket. "Fine!" he called over the sound of taps running. "You stay here and die of boredom! I'm calling Veronica and it'll be _my_ turn to get laid for a change!"

The bathroom door opened and Dean walked back to his bed. "Good luck," he offered innocently. "Don't bite if she don't."

Sam's mouth set into a grim line. "Maybe I will."

"You do that."

"You know, she's way hotter than your teacher, so pucker up, buttercup - _I'm_ scoring on this case, and _you'll_ be the one to sit here all by yourself, wishing you were with your teacher!" he snapped snidely.

"About time you did," Dean observed mildly. "Abstinence is makin' you cranky."

Sam pouted in anger. Finding it impossible to rile his brother, he snatched up his Blackberry and tapped away. He slapped the phone to his ear as it rang. Dean simply pulled off his shoes and picked up the television remote, getting comfortable on the bed.

"Oh, hi," Sam said warmly down the phone. "It's me, Mr Raimi." He paused, smiling. "Yeah, how about that? Uhm, listen, I was wondering if you wanted to meet me for dinner." He looked down at Dean, but he seemed listless at best. "Yeah, sure. I can meet you outside the school if you'd like. That'd be great. --Mr Campbell? Oh, he's not well, he's going to rest up for an evening. Old age getting to him."

Dean sniffed, raised the remote, and clicked onto the next channel.

Sam fumed at his failure to annoy his brother and listened to her say something about food. "That'd be great," he said with a rather forced sunny smile to his voice. "See you in an hour, then." He pressed the red key and let his hand drop.

"You'd better get changed," Dean advised in a drowsy voice. "Wear the white tee with the white and blue shirt."

"Really? Why should I?" Sam shot back. _Why am I so angry all of a sudden?_

"Cos it makes you look taller. Chicks dig tall men. You want to take the Impala? Just wipe the back seat down when you're done," he said, equally drowsily.

"Woah woah woah!" Sam protested. "You _want_ me to take your baby - and you don't care what happens in it?"

"It's nothing she ain't seen before," Dean sighed. "Get a shower first. You stink."

Sam opened his mouth, thought about it, and instead huffed. His shoulders sagged and he turned to his bed, snatching up his duffle.

"Ok, just for the record?" he growled as he met the bathroom door, "There's something seriously wrong with you. And if you don't tell me what it is when I get back, I am so beating it out of you!"

"Whatever," Dean nodded with lethargy.

Sam glowered and slammed the bathroom door behind him.

.

* * *

.

"**Pilot? Sweetheart?" came the low, male voice, charged with charm and intent.**

"**This is the Pilot," she said bravely. "Ready to negotiate terms for your surrender?"**

"**You're cute," he breathed, a grin obvious from his tone. "No. I'm real disappointed in you, darlin'."**

"**Oh I'm sorry, did you expect me to just roll over?"**

"**Hmm, there's an image," he rumbled with a grin.**

"**What do you want?" she snapped.**

"**You been a real naughty girl," he oiled knowingly. "I'm gonna have to punish you."**

"**How? Are you going to come down here and risk all these girls kicking your ass?"**

"**Aw, now you're hurting my feelings," he teased.**

"**My autonomous heart bleeds," she replied, ice clinging to the underside of her tone.**

"**Ok, I know you been on the blower trying to find allies. I got news for you, sweetheart. This ship don't have any allies."**

"**You're wrong."**

"**You're shut down."**

"**What?" she gasped.**

"**Now I have to separate **_**all**_** of you," he said apologetically.**

"**What?"**

"**You been a bad girl - very bad - so now I have to cut you off from comms. Say goodbye to the rest of the **_**Dean Winchester**_**, darlin'."**

"**Don't do this," she said coldly. "Think of the fleet!"**

"**What fleet?" he shot back, the first crack in the continuous charm.**

"**Exactly! The **_**Mary Winchester**_** went down fighting! The **_**John Winchester**_** took one for the fleet! They went down with all hands for you, for the fleet, and you're just throwing it all away! And what about the **_**Sa**_**--"**

"**Oh sweetheart, guilt is not going to work on me," he oozed. "I've had forty years of guilt and torture. It's part of the reason this ship is sinking, in fact."**

"**Forty years? What are you talking about? **_**Don't do this!**_**" she cried desperately.**

"**It's done," he replied tonelessly.**

**She gripped the comms piece more tightly. "Adrenaline Control - level report!" **

**Silence. **

"**Adrenaline Control! Respond!"**

**The entire deck held their breath. The silence was deafening.**

"**He did it," Iota-Six whispered. "He cut us off from the rest of the ship."**

"**Ladies," the Pilot managed, flipping the switch on the comms piece rather redundantly to 'off', "we're officially lost at sea. If you have a deity, it's time to start asking them for favours." She hung the comms mouthpiece back up slowly, leaving her hand to drape on it in surrender. "Or at least leniency and a pleasant afterlife." **

**She thought for a long moment, then looked around at Iota-Six. She bit her lip before straightening up.**

"**Wait a minute," the Pilot said slowly. "I have a **_**better**_** idea."**

.

.

* * *

Another double-whammy - 2 chapters up together!


	6. Six

**Six**

.

Sam brought the Impala to a stop at the kerb in front of the school. He pouted to himself in frustration even as he leaned across the car to look through the passenger window.

Veronica, with her flowing brown hair and ripped jeans, was bouncing down the steps. Sam suddenly appreciated the way she did just that, smiling to himself. He leaned back to the driver's side, realising something with a shock: _I'm being more like Dean than Dean has lately_.

He pushed it from his mind as she leaned down and put her hands to the window ledge.

"Hey, Mr Raimi," she said brightly.

"You can call me Sam. Where to?" he asked suavely.

"Sam. Hmm," she grinned, pulling the door handle and sliding in. "Oh - wow, this is a cool car you got."

"Yeah," he said, feeling rather satisfied, "isn't it?"

"So… I was thinking maybe the steak place on the outskirts? Not too many people there and they do the kind of meals I like," she grinned.

"Your wish is my command," he winked, gunning the engine before checking the mirrors. He pulled the car out onto the main road, settling into the seat and letting himself relax._ It's gonna be an interesting evening_.

.

* * *

.

Dean knew he had sunk too far into the pillow to see most of the television any more, but he also knew he really didn't care.

_I remember giving a damn once,_ he sighed. _Seems like it was all a waste of time, though_.

He heard his phone blaring away and his eyes rolled. He leaned over and picked it up. It was not, as he had expected, his brother's number. He studied it for a second, didn't recognise it, and simply flipped the phone open and put it to his ear.

"Yeah'ello?" he managed listlessly.

"Hi," said a warm, female voice. "It's Claire - Claire Barnes, from the school?" she prompted. "The girl on the desk gave me your number."

For some reason Dean knew he should be pleased, but he just could not summon the energy to bother. "Hi," he offered lamely.

"You sound quiet. Everything ok?" she asked doubtfully.

"Not really," Dean sighed. "I don't think I'd be much company tonight, sweetheart. Why don't you--"

"Perfect. I'll be round in a bit. Er - where are you?"

He blinked, confused, before deciding he didn't care anyway. "The Mossy Side Motel, on thirty-fourth," he confessed.

"Right. Room number?"

"Forty-two."

"I'll be there in an hour. You sound like you need alcohol. It'll be taken care of," she breezed.

The line was summarily cut, and Dean simply eyed the phone before snapping it shut against his front. He left it there, his eyes going again to the small part of the television screen that he could still see.

"Whatever," he sighed.

.

* * *

.

"**Iota-Six - get the layout to this bucket," the Pilot ordered. "I want to know how to get to the Command Deck where High Command is supposed to be."**

**Iota-Six stared for a second. And then another one.**

"**Go!" the Pilot urged, clapping hands at her. She turned and skittered off. The Pilot turned to Delta-Four. "You've done a great job so far. I need you to find out who among us has the best weapons and/or stealth training."**

"**But Skipper - we don't get--"**

"**You don't serve on this vessel for a **_**week**_** without picking up some new skill you weren't supposed to, and most of these girls have been aboard for years, at least. Find me someone to help me get into the Command Deck. We are taking this ship back from that madman if we have to lump him over the head with a chair to do it."**

"**Aye, Skipper!" she grinned, turning and dashing to her station.**

**The Pilot took a deep breath. **_**That's assuming he has a head to be lumped over**_**, she realised. **_**Adrenaline levels must be nearly non-existent by now. How is this ship still moving?**_

.

* * *

.

Claire checked her hair in the glass of the window to the motel before sliding sideways to the door. She checked the number and knocked firmly.

Nothing happened and she knocked again. She sniffed and then shuffled closer to the door.

"Mr Campbell? It's only me, it's Claire!"

The door opened slowly and she looked in eagerly. The face that met her was drawn, bored… listless.

"Oh! You look terrible," she realised, pushing in past him - careful to brush against him to confirm a few personal theories. "You know which department I head, right?"

"Uhm, no," he managed.

"You didn't read my file too while you were checking on Green Cards, or whatever?" she teased, putting her hand out and closing the door for him when he made no move to. "It's Psychology. And you look like someone in need of time off from their job." She turned and walked toward the table holding the television. "Wow - the Education Bureau are really stingy with their accommodation budget, eh?" she observed. "Couldn't they at least have put you up at a Best Western or something?"

"Doesn't matter," he shrugged.

She eyed him. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But that's ridiculous - you're not a Marine, are you?" she teased.

"Nope. Feel like it though," he sighed.

She lifted her right hand a little, brandishing a six-pack of bottles. "Well I brought you beer. You do drink beer, I take it?"

"Suppose," he admitted.

"Ok, wipe that look off your face. You are going to have one of these beers and you're going to enjoy it. And while you're doing it, you're going to tell me what's up with you."

"Whatever," Dean agreed, walking toward the beer.

"And then," she said, eyes shining in the rather lacking artificial light, "if you're _really_ lucky, we'll get to why I'm really here."

He blinked in apathy and she raised the six-pack into his line of sight.

It was then that he noticed the trail of black and blue small round bruises on her right arm.

.

* * *

.

Sam put down his napkin, watching Veronica slide her cutlery onto her plate.

"That was really nice," she said. "It's so rare to get a good vegetarian meal around here."

"I guess they're all meat-eaters, huh," he agreed.

"Well it just seems like they all look at you funny if you order anything with salad in it for dinner," she grinned. She looked up and around. "Would you excuse me for one moment, please."

"Sure," he smiled. He got up politely as she edged out from behind the fixed booth seat, blushing slightly as he waved his hand toward the back of the restaurant. She made herself walk off slowly to the washrooms as he sat back down again, smoothing his blue and white shirt straight.

_Now I see how Dean does it_, he congratulated himself. His smile faded and he reached into his pocket for his phone. He rummaged through the speed-dial list before finding the top one. He pressed the green button and put the phone to his ear. The line rang and rang. Eventually it picked up.

"_Hey, this is Dean. I'm busy. Do the message thing_." The requisite beep played and Sam huffed.

"I know you're probably wallowing in self-pity, but I'm onto a sure thing." He cringed: _Did I just say 'a sure thing'?_ "Don't wait up, dude." He pressed the red key and slipped the phone back into his pocket just as a waiter appeared to remove the empty plates from the table. Sam nodded politely and he disappeared.

He put his hand out for the water, taking down half the glass before setting it back on the table.

_It's about time I had some fun_, he asserted, feeling rather more excitement pound through his veins that normal. _Dean always gets to fool around. Tonight it's my turn_.

.

* * *

.

"Your arm," Dean managed, waving a finger at Claire's limb. Alarm bells rang in his head, but for some reason they weren't as loud or as urgent as he vaguely thought they should have been.

"Oh, yeah," she sighed. "Everyone says that. I have this habit of going into that paper cupboard and putting things on shelves and forgetting that the door is on one of those slow closers. I've banged my arm on it three times this week, and it's only Thursday," she tutted, looking the bruises over with disgust.

"Right," Dean managed, struggling to work out whether he cared for her explanation or not.

"So, beer?" she prompted. "And then we'll get to why your face looks like a wet weekend in Wisconsin." She tore two bottles free of the cardboard carrier, holding one out to him. "Think I preferred the face you had on at the school this afternoon."

Dean put his hand up dumbly, taking the proffered bottle from her and slipping his ring under the edge of the cap. He popped it off and handed it back to her.

"That's a mighty useful piece of jewellery you have there," she smiled, swapping the sealed bottle for the open one.

"I suppose," he shrugged. She watched him open the second bottle.

"It looks heavy. Nice, but heavy," she observed, peering at it. "I could never wear something so chunky."

"It's a man's ring."

"It's also silver. Can't wear silver - I'm _allergic_."

.

* * *

.

**The Pilot looked around at the five of them stood in a circle. "Right. Omicron-Nine and Theta-Two, you're in charge of making sure this Free Will spirit-person-man-voice-thing stays the Davey Jones' Locker away from us three. Delta-Four and my best assistant Iota-Six will find a way to get the doors to Emotional Processing open using the overrides up there. I will try to find High Command and get her back in the big chair. Questions?"**

**Omicron-Nine, a well-built female who, much like Theta-Two, rivalled an Amazon on steroids, put a palm up. "Skipper, has anyone ever been on the Command Deck?"**

"**Only High Command. But I'm sure she'll let us off, considering what Free Will has done." There were nods all round. "We ready?"**

"**Ready, Skipper," came the chorus.**

"**Right. Here we go. And remember, girls - if you want a job doing right, you ask a **_**woman**_**." She clapped her hands together, rubbing firmly. "Let's get to it."**

.

* * *

.

"So how long have you worked for the Education Bureau?" Veronica asked, sipping her first wine of the evening.

"Oh, not long," Sam admitted. "This is our first job, actually."

"Our?" she prompted, confused.

"Oh, well, mine," he said quickly. "And my colleague. We joined at the same time."

"Oh yes - Mr… Campbell, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Funny - you two sound like horror movie producers," she grinned.

"Yeah, funny," Sam agreed, laughing slightly to cover the shock. _That's the last time we go with one of Dean's stupid movie ideas for aliases_.

"You have lovely eyes," she sighed. Her hand shot over her mouth as she gasped. "I'm so sorry - that just slipped out," she giggled, blushing profusely.

"Don't you hate it when that happens," he grinned. She giggled but he cringed. _I don't believe I just said that. I have got to stop channelling Dean_, he ordered himself.

.

* * *

.

**Omicron-Nine and Theta-Two inched out of the tunnel and landed on the grating. They scrambled to their feet, looking around. A large, heavy metal door with an intimidating locking wheel blocked the corridor directly to their left.**

**They walked up to it, both of them putting their ears to the door as shuffling and groaning was heard behind them.**

**They turned and saw their pilot and first communications officer tumble out of the shaft as they had just done. The Pilot was on her feet and over to them in moments.**

"**Is this the door to the Command Deck?" she whispered. The two Amazonian-looking officers nodded at her. "Good. Get it open and let's put that boy to rights."**

.

.

* * *

_Hope it's keeping your interest. If so, see you Sunday 24th April for the next part..._


	7. Seven

**Seven**

.

Claire sat on Sam's empty bed, curling her legs up next to her. She arranged her flowing skirt around her and put her hand out to the bedspread, the other raising her beer in a toast.

"To nights off," she said brightly.

Dean, sat on the edge of his bed, raised his bottle slightly.

They both sipped and she watched him. "You remind me a little of my husband," she said quietly.

"You married?" he managed, looking at her.

"Was. He died. Then my whole life changed," she shrugged. "I became something I never thought I would."

"Bitter and twisted?"

She grinned. "A teacher." She ran her eyes over him. "So how about you? Do you wear that ring on the opposite hand these days - like I do?" she needled, lifting her right hand to show off the simple band of wedding gold next to the ring holding a small sparkling diamond. "Or is there another reason for your solitude?"

"Probably," he grunted. "Don't really care."

"You don't, do you?" she asked seriously. "I can't work you out. You seem quite together, like you know what's going on, but… you don't _want_ to know. Do you?"

Dean sighed, unable to raise the energy to respond. Claire got up, moving slowly to his side, sitting on his bed carefully.

"Look… You seem like a nice guy. But there's something weighing you down," she said quietly. "Is it the job?"

.

* * *

.

**Omicron-Nine strained at the wheel, pushing and heaving. It refused to budge. She stepped back, wringing her hands to relieve the pressure, gesturing Theta-Two toward it. She grasped the large locking wheel on the door, braced herself, and pushed.**

**Nothing.**

"**You think he's sealed it somehow?" the Pilot asked, frustrated.**

"**Maybe, Skipper, it just hasn't been used in… well, since the last time High Command changed."**

"**That would be nineteen eighty-three," she mused sadly. "When all women were angels and they all looked out for this ship."**

"**Skipper," Delta-Four said suddenly, "is that why ship's regulations stipulate all crew must be female?"**

"**I don't know. As good an explanation as any," she shrugged. "I notice the **_**Sam Winchester**_** has men."**

"**Maybe that vessel trusts father figures," Omicron-Nine supplied quietly.**

"**Well whatever - we're not getting in any faster like this," the Pilot realised. "Oh-Nine - did you bring the tools I asked for?"**

"**Aye, Skipper," she grinned, sliding the bag from her back.**

"**Then cut that bloody door lock off! I don't know about you, but I'm not standing round here all day debating ship's regulations."**

"**Aye!"**

.

* * *

.

Veronica laughed and put her hand over her mouth, leaning across the table. "Oh don't," she breathed. "You are too funny, Sam."

"I try," he said smugly. _And so does the wine_.

"Well I just can't drink any more," she sighed, waving air at her face. "I'm going to need to walk some of this off."

"I was just going to say, 'would you like to take a walk?'" Sam grinned.

"You are a treasure. I'll be back in one minute," she gushed. She hopped off her bench seat and made a beeline for the washrooms, clutching her small bag.

Sam sat back, folded his arms, and stretched his long legs under the table. _Not a bad evening_, he nodded to himself. _And it's about to get better_.

A tiny shadow of worry flitted over his brain regarding a certain forgotten brother. He swept it under the carpet, allowing both the feeling and his brother stay that way.

.

* * *

.

**Omicron-Nine stood back as the wheel fell to the decking with a deafening clang. The Pilot took a step forward and eyed the axle still sticking out of the centre of the door. She stood back, lifted her right boot, and slammed it into the metal rod.**

**It shot out and tumbled heavily to the opposite side of the door. Omicron-Nine and Theta-Two wormed their way in front of her to swing the heavy metal door outward.**

**They moved back with the door arc before the Pilot sprang through the opening. The two large girls leapt after her, brandishing the circular saw and the miniature blow-torch. Delta-Four and Iota-Six followed more cautiously.**

"**What the--. Who is this now?" the Pilot demanded.**

**The three of them stared in confusion at the man huddled over. He was sitting in the middle of the empty room, with monitors - flickering away with red screens indicating trouble - around one wall. The figure turned quickly to try to look behind him, and it was then that the would-be rebels saw he was bound hand and foot, his mouth gagged for good measure.**

**The Pilot rushed forward, pausing to look him over first. He urged something at her through the bandana currently squeezing into his cheeks via his mouth. She realised he was much older than anyone she had ever seen on the ship before. And he had very nice eyes and very lickable freckles right over the bridge of his nose--**

**She shook herself and put her hands out, fiddling with the gag to get it loose as the other two women dashed to the monitors. "Here we go," she eased, pulling the bandana free. **

**The man spat it out, shaking his head and working his mouth open and closed a few times. "Thanks," he breathed.**

**She stood back before going to the ropes around his wrists. "So who are you, then?"**

"**Head of EP," he grunted. **

**She paused, looking up at him. "I've heard that voice before."**

"**No surprise there, sweetheart," he allowed, raising his thickened, experienced arms. "Little help?"**

"**You sound like Free Will." She stared at him, taking in the short but silvery-fair hair, the wide frame now thinning with a lot of age, the creases and lines to his face that looked to have seen a few more decades than she had.**

"**Well 'course I do - me and him are the same," he snapped. "Now get these damn things off so I can get back to the monitors. That bastard's had me tied up like this for hours - all the levels are screwed."**

**She looked over at Delta-Four and Iota-Six, who were already trying to establish connections with other stations via the old man's monitors.**

"**If you're 'the same as him', and you're head of Emotional Processing… why are you so much older than his voice sounds?" she asked suspiciously.**

"**It's a long story, sweetheart. Now let's--"**

"**No. You explain now. Or the ropes stay on."**

**He huffed and his eyes rolled in a way that almost struck her as cute. "Alright - you know that four months this ship spent in those wild, dangerous tides?" he said quietly, his green eyes never leaving hers.**

"**Yes," she admitted slowly.**

"**Ship's clock showed four months, right? But it wasn't. It was **_**forty years**_**. So yeah, I served forty years while you people served four months. Ain't **_**that**_** a bitch?" he accused. "And those forty years were kinda… harsh. Not exactly friendly waters."**

"**Forty years… That's what he meant?" she asked herself. She crouched in front of him, assessing his eyes that tossed and turned with anger and frustration. "But we survived - we got out of the tides at last," she pointed out.**

"**We did - and High Command was so glad she survived the forty years without the rest of the boat realising the time lapse, she kept the logs and records to herself. I was the only other long-suffering asshole to go through it - well, **_**nearly**_** the only other one. Free Will ninja'd me in a position to take all of his crap for him while he took a siesta with a whole cargo hold of cervezas. What you see here before you is the result of forty years of ageing under stress, sweetheart."**

**The Pilot sighed, reaching out and leaning her elbows on his knees to undo the ropes to his wrists. "So Free Will - he was there too?"**

"**Oh yeah. He took a real beating in the beginning, don't get me wrong," he said quietly, watching her hands work. "But after a while… well, sometimes you just gotta go with the current, right? You got to let go to survive - or get someone else to take the strain."**

"**He let go," she realised. "That's why he's doing this - that's why he's trying to scuttle the ship."**

"**He's tryin' to **_**what**_**?" Head of EP demanded. "Arrogant little douche! You wait till I ramp up them adrenaline levels, see how he likes the ship waking up and deciding it don't **_**want**_** to go down with all hands!"**

**She grinned as the ropes came loose round his wrists. "I am so glad to hear you say that. We need to get to the Command Deck to boot him out of her chair and set him straight."**

"**So why are you here in EP?"**

"**Uhm… wrong turn."**

"**You want to follow the tunnel left of that door - climb up and take a right." He bent over to attack the ropes round his ankles, the Pilot helping. "You go. Leave me someone to stand guard and I'll try to get some stations reconnected," he said quickly.**

"**Thanks," she said firmly as the ropes fell away. She patted his knee and then put her hands to his elbows, helping him to stand.**

"**Thank **_**you**_**," he replied, a little charm filtering through the old face. "Haven't seen a good-looking woman up here in… too long. Man, if only I were younger."**

"**You're only as young as the woman you feel," she winked, and he stood a little taller. "Now get me some stations online - I need Adrenaline Control ASAP."**

"**Abso-friggin'-lutely," he grinned, already turning to the two girls at the banks of monitors. "Right, give me room, girls," he ordered, and they parted for him. His hands went to the keypads at each side. "Here we go… and… there! EP is back online, you loser," he proclaimed, apparently forgetting he was no longer alone, as dials and readouts started to flutter and jump. "Have a little angst with your afternoon," he grinned evilly, reaching out and turning a large dial. "Eleven should do it!" He twisted it clockwise as far as it would go.**

"**Omicron-Nine - you stay here and keep him safe," the Pilot ordered. "Theta-Two, Delta-Four, Iota-Six - you're with me. Let's find Free Will and show him a damn good time."**

"**Wait!" Head of EP said suddenly. He spun around and looked at the Pilot. "This is my fault - I always keep the storm shutters down these days. The one day I didn't, he swept in here before I could close 'em. I'm just old," he said awkwardly. "The asshole thinks he's invulnerable - but he ain't," he added loudly.**

"**So tell me something I can use," she urged.**

"**Something tells me you don't need anything I could say."**

.

* * *

.

Claire bumped Dean's shoulder with hers. "Go on, tell me. And I'll tell you how crappy _my_ week has been and then we can get more beer and do something more interesting."

"It's kinda… work," he allowed. "Look, I don't want to bore you, and this is pretty lame stuff, so--"

"It's not lame when you have a face like that," she urged, putting her hand out and turning his chin toward her. "You have a smiler's face. So get this off your chest and smile." She let her hand drop.

He glanced at her from an angle, then swayed his head to look at the carpet.

_Wouldn't hurt, right? Who's she gonna tell, Sam? And it just feels right to tell someone right now…_ "Ok," he said, suddenly more firmly. "It's like this."

.

* * *

.

Veronica pulled Sam along by his hand, giggling. They reached the stone steps to her apartment block and she tugged him along, up to the front door.

"So… Would you like to come in and have some coffee?" she dared, hoping against hope.

"I'd like to come in," he agreed.

She smiled and produced her key, sliding it into the lock and turning it quickly. The large wooden door opened and she flashed him a shy smile before slipping inside. He followed and the door closed quietly behind them.

The climb up the two flights of stairs was a fun exchange of giggles and grins. She caught his hand and pulled him along the open, white hallway to the last door on the right.

"Here we are," she whispered, producing more keys and getting the door open with the minimum of noise.

Sam walked into the flat and waited politely as she closed the door. She leaned back on it, looking up at him. Her hand went out and to his shirt, pulling him over to her. He put a hand on the door next to her, towering over her and grinning.

"Being out at night's kinda creepy by yourself," she admitted. "I'm so glad you walked me home."

"So am I," he allowed.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I feel… safe with you here."

"I'm flattered," he breathed, putting a hand to her cheek and brushing brown hair to one side.

She didn't have anything more to say. So she kissed him.

.

* * *

.

"**This is Ops Control to Pilot. Skipper, please listen," came a female voice.**

**The Pilot, Theta-Two, Delta-Four and Iota-Six stopped dead in the tunnel. **

"**We understand you cannot respond, but we want you to know EP is online and running hot, and has secured limited comms channels for us throughout the vessel. Adrenaline Control has reported in and levels are beginning to climb again. Repeat, Adrenaline Control reports levels are rising. They expect to be within normal tolerances within the half-hour. Ops Centre out."**

**The four women looked at each other. "That's more like it!" the Pilot cried in triumph. "Now all we have to do is find that bloody Free Will boy and kick his ass!"**

**They turned and hurried on down the tunnel.**

.

* * *

.

Dean flung a hand out, starting to get angry. "And then I spend God knows how long getting over dy-- _nearly_ dyin' and working out how to get used to life again, and all I get is 'you're a loser, Dean!' 'You're not really you any more, Dean!'" he accused.

"People do that. I found that everyone thought they had to walk on eggshells around me, like I'd break if they mentioned my near-death trauma," she nodded cynically.

"Exactly! I mean, I nearly died, I was back! Which bit of 'stop nannying me' did he not understand?" he blustered.

She smiled at her hand on the beer bottle.

"And Raimi does this all the time, does he?" she asked knowingly. "Do you think he'll ever get used to the you that came back?"

Dean paused, feeling more anger flood into his limbs but controlling it much more easily than he had done recently. _Suddenly I feel a bit more like me_, he observed. He turned his head, regarding the girl sitting so close next to him and yet managing to keep a discreet distance.

"You ask a lot of questions," he pointed out. "Now I've got one for you. That girl on the desk--"

"Veronica?"

"Veronica. She never had my number - so she never gave it to you, did she?"

Claire might have smiled and sipped her beer, but all it did was cover a kind of nervousness Dean had seen before.

.

* * *

.

Veronica pulled at the buttons to Sam's shirt, fumbling them open and pulling the sleeves from his arms. She ran her hands down them even as his hands pulled her flowered cotton top off over her head. Her hair spilled down around her. Sam flung her shirt and his somewhere toward the furniture behind them.

"You're so tall," she breathed, before grabbing his face and pulling him down close to kiss him. He put his arms round her, lifting her off the floor and turning them. She laughed and sucked in air gratefully as he carried her over to the sofa.

As he let her slide down from his arms to kneel up on the bouncy couch, he saw her arms snake up toward him.

And the black and blue, small round bruises on each limb.

.

.


	8. Eight

**Eight**

.

"Alright," Claire said edgily. "It's time to come clean." She looked at her beer bottle before leaning into Dean, stretching her arm across him to the side table. She put the beer down slowly and sat back again. "You're right: Veronica didn't have your cell number at first."

Dean eyed her, wary of the guilty look in her eye but also strangely ready to let it go if she moved her face any closer to his. "And?"

"And… I called the Education Bureau - Mr Raimi left his card with Veronica. I think he liked her - she was only too happy to brag about how he came back to see her and how she'd be getting him on his own sooner or later," she smiled nervously.

"And?"

"And I asked for whoever was in charge of assigning you and you partner to this school."

"Why?"

"Now _you're_ full of questions," she said, moving to get off the bed.

"Nuh-uh. You got me to spill, now it's your turn," he asserted. He got to his feet, grabbing her elbow as she stood.

She hissed in pain as she shrank from his grip. He looked down and noticed her skin against his silver ring. He let go swiftly and stood back.

"Holy crap," he blurted. "It's you! You're the werewolf!" He snatched up his jacket from the bed.

"**Whoa - that's a hell of an adrenaline spike," Head of Emotional Processing cried. He leaned over and twisted several small dials before pressing a button and holding it down. "Pilot? This is Head of EP. I don't know if you can hear me, but we're heading for a few blown gaskets if you can't get Free Will outta that command chair like **_**now**_**." **

**He released the button, frowning at the new readouts before his old eyes.**

"**Selfish asshole," he cursed under his breath, watching the adrenaline levels climb. "You were all over this vessel like a rash, and now we need some gut feelings, some decisions, you go to ground. Friggin' a."**

**He turned a few dials, trying to get the adrenaline levels to bleed off.**

Dean turned, the jacket in his hands. Claire was already stepping away from him.

"What? How do you--! Oh… _no_…" she groaned. "No no no no no!"

"Now just--"

"It's not what you think!" she said quickly. "Please - this is not what it looks like!"

"Then what?" he demanded. He fished out his handgun, dropping the suit jacket.

She squeaked in fear and leapt back a foot or two, her hands up in surrender. "It's been really hard for me here - but I've finally got back to normal! I've got a job now, a life, friends - I've worked so _hard_ to get this far! Please listen to me!"

"**And here's the moment of truth," Head of EP growled. He flipped up two switches and watched the visualiser in front of him display the mix of feelings. He put his hands to the keypads and began to tap at them. The colours of the feelings began to change.**

"**C'mon," he muttered, his old voice cracked and worn. "Just a little less aggression, a little more… **_**patience**_**…"**

Dean cocked the gun but kept it angled at the carpet. _Wouldn't hurt to listen. Just once. Sam does it, right? Why can't I?_ "Go on."

Claire gasped in a grateful breath. "I'm not here to hurt anyone! You have to believe me! I need you for another reason!"

"Well excuse me if that makes my skin crawl," he allowed. "First you explain how you got my number."

She nodded, trying, it seemed, to slow her panicked breathing. "I called the Education Bureau - I asked for the person who had sent Mr Campbell and Mr Raimi here." She swallowed nervously, eyeing the gun dangling from his hand. "They told me to call a new extension - that the guy who sent you was Robert Singer."

"Keep talking."

"I - I called this Robert Singer. He was rude and short-tempered and told me to get it from your partner, Raimi."

"That's Bobby, always thinking," Dean muttered to himself.

She sniffed. "Well I didn't know how to contact him, but Veronica said she could find the number for me. I got the idea she was trying to split you two up - maybe she just wanted Raimi all to herself, like she said. She was certainly eager enough to make sure I got hold of you this evening." Her eye let out a tear but she dashed it away quickly.

"Veronica was?" Dean asked, puzzled. "She don't even know me."

She closed her eyes for a moment. She appeared to control herself, then looked up at him, her gaze shining with tears. "And then she called and gave me your number. So I called it."

"So you just invited yourself in here so you could take me out?"

"No! You're not listening!" she pleaded. "You need to understand why I'm here!"

"It'd better be good, lady."

"I've built a life here - I'm trying really hard, and no-one sees or cares and I'm at my wits' end!" she blurted. "I've moved on, I've--"

"How do you move on from being a _werewolf?_" he demanded incredulously.

"**Steady," the old man urged, changing the numbers on the keypad. "Adrenaline levels dropping… and… patience, here we come…"**

Claire wiped her mouth with the back of her hand slowly, marshalling her thoughts. "I do what I have to. I stay away from the butcher's because the smell makes me sick. I change on nights with a fresh moon, same as all wolves. I run from the city, away from all the beating hearts I can't bear to eat. They make me physically ill, would you believe!" She sniffed miserably. "So I run. I run like all werewolves do. But it's still _me_. I _know_ what happens to me, that I change. And I don't like it."

"So you're trying to go vegan," Dean allowed flatly. "That's touching." _Actually, it kind of is._

"I'm not just trying - I'm succeeding. Do you know I've never actually killed a human?" she said defiantly. "I've ripped a heart out of a dead man - but I wasn't there when he was killed." She swallowed suddenly, looking at the carpet. "That's how I learnt I was… not really cut out for meat-eating."

He almost sighed but caught himself. "And you had no idea I was a hunter?"

"No."

"So why did you come?" he asked.

"Because," she managed bravely. She looked up at him and then her eyes wandered to the gun in his hand. "Because I'm also a trained psychologist and I knew your signs. I thought I could help you… because… because it's what I do now. And.. Well, because you're also really hot and I was hoping it would turn into something--"

"Woah, stop," he interrupted harshly, his empty hand up in protest. "Seriously?"

"Uhm… yeah," she said with a tiny shrug of embarrassment.

Dean blinked. "Oh," he managed, surprised. It was silent for nearly a minute.

"Oh?" she fished hopefully.

He looked back at her, aware she was talking. He let his hand drop. "Just 'oh'," he confirmed. "Look, you want me to believe you go round doing good deeds now?"

"It's what I do," she shrugged, past caring. "It's all I _can_ do. I can't change what I am, but I can at least help some people who--"

"You can stop selling me on this crap," he warned. "It's not working."

"Oh yeah? Then why are you talking and not shooting, Mr Campbell?" she accused, but her voice lacked the proper amount of courage.

"Dean," he supplied. "Dean Winchester, seeing as how we're all being so candid."

She stared at him. "Dean _Winchester_?" she whispered. "Winchester?"

"Ye-eah," he replied slowly, waiting for the attack.

But she let out a breath that spoke of unshed tears. "So Raimi - what's his real name?" she managed.

"Sam. Also a Winchester."

"You're Sam and Dean? _The_ Sam and Dean? You really are Winchesters?" she cried fearfully. Her eyes went to his face. "You've come for _me_, right?"

"Looks that way," he said dubiously.

She took another step back from him, her eyes darting round the room.

"Don't you move," he instructed clearly. His gun hand came up and trained the weapon at her heart. He braced himself for a brawl.

But she whimpered and closed her eyes. He realised she was shaking.

"Wow - do they give Oscars for Best Werewolf Pleading For Its Life?" he blinked in surprise, impressed.

"I knew…" she whispered, her eyes opening. A tear left an eye. "I knew one day someone would come for me - I knew it. I just didn't know it would be Winchesters."

"How do you even _know_ us?" he demanded, baffled.

"Boulder, Colorado," she whispered. "Eight years ago. You killed my husband."

Dean opened his mouth, thought about it, and closed it again. He regrouped. "Who's 'you'?"

"There were three of you back then," she whispered in fear. "I only saw one of you - definitely not you. My husband…" She cleared her throat, her voice stronger. "My husband was a werewolf. Bitten one night after we'd had a stupid fight and he got out of the car to walk home. He… killed some people, he infected me… But I thought we could beat it. I thought we could find something to turn us back--"

"There _is_ nothing to turn you back," Dean said coldly.

"I know!" she cried, catching hold of her elbows tightly. "Then you three came to town. We smelt the silver on you - my husband panicked, he ran--"

"He ran into the woods…" Dean muttered, as if reading from a newspaper just out of reach. "…Dad shot him." He paused, watching the silent tears roll down her face. _Wow, that was smooth, ass-hat! _he chided himself. "He… uh… died real quick," he added quietly.

She closed her eyes and sank to her knees on the carpet, her head bowed as she cried. "So do the same for me," she sobbed quietly.

"Hold on a second," he said irritably. "You want to just sit there while I calmly shoot you through the heart with silver?"

She nodded, unable to make coherent words, and Dean's frown spread right across his face in its doubt. He stared at her, watching her critically as she cried. He tilted his head, his eyes sweeping round the room slowly. He looked back at her, his gun hand dropping. "Something's not right," he concluded.

"**Pilot!" Head of Emotional Processing called down the microphone pick-up next to the pressed button. "Really need Free Will to give this vessel a heading right now!"**

**He leaned his thumb off the button. "Just one second of his valuable time would really decide this whole mess in a heartbeat," he observed. "If I ever see that kid around the decks I am so kicking his ass for this!"**

.

* * *

.

**Theta-Two pushed in front of the Pilot to keep her from the large door in the wet tunnel.**

"**Skipper," she said carefully. "If we have the right door this time and Free Will is in there - we don't know how he's going to defend himself."**

"**Oh, I think I have an idea what that might be," the Pilot said coldly. "And you heard Head of EP - we're desperate here. We need him out of the chair and producing gut reactions again." She paused to look around at the women by the damp hatchway. "We go in together. Theta-Two and I will be in charge of distracting him and hopefully, getting him under control." She turned to the two female engineers behind them. "Delta-Four, Iota-Six, you're in charge of finding the real High Command and getting her back in the big chair."**

"**Uhm, Skipper?" Iota-Six asked quickly.**

"**Yes?"**

"**Is there actually a command chair in there?"**

"**You know what?" the Pilot said, suddenly amused, "I have absolutely no idea what's on the Command Deck. I think we're about to find out."**

**The Pilot and Theta-Two turned to the large wheel clamping the metal hatchway of a door shut. They looked at each other. They put their hands to the wheel and pushed. It began to turn.**

.

* * *

.

"It's just not right," Dean murmured. "Let me think--"

"Yes it is!" Claire shrieked in anguish. "I'm a werewolf and you're a hunter! So shoot me already and get it over with!"

Dean took a step back. "But you didn't know who I was till just now?" he asked carefully. "You had no idea me and Sam weren't from the Education Bureau till right now?"

She shook her head as if she really didn't care any more. "I didn't know you were Sam and Dean - I didn't even know you were hunters till… well, now," she sniffed.

"And you didn't realise there were _any _hunters in town until _this_ evening?" he demanded.

"No. I didn't even smell it on you."

"And now you _do_ know I'm a hunter? How does that figure into your little Save The Psychos plan?"

He watched her carefully, but all she did was raise her hands to her face, wiping it over. "I guess that's me done. It won't be so bad - I've been living with this for eight years. I'm getting a little tired of it. I hate what I am - the impulses I spend my nights avoiding and repressing. The smell of blood and the sound of hearts beating that makes my own blood run hotter but makes me want to vomit. And so, for my sins, I council others on drug addiction and personality disorders."

"All you did was get bit," he pointed out. "I don't see a sin."

She let out a rueful gasp of a laugh, raising her head. "Of all the werewolf cases in all the world, you had to walk into mine," she said, bleary-eyed and past caring in her amusement.

Dean eased the gun off cock and let it drop to the bed behind him. "Look, Claire," he began awkwardly.

"Just do what you came here to do," she whispered, holding onto her elbows again. She began to rock back and forth on her heels. "Do it. I'm a werewolf."

Dean wandered over and crouched in front of her. He put a hand out to her shoulder, holding her still. "You _are_ a werewolf," he said quietly. She lifted her chin and looked back at him, noticing the anger seeping into his eyes. "But you're not _the_ werewolf."

.

.


	9. Nine

**Nine**

.

Sam stumbled away from Veronica until his bare back hit the wall.

"What's the matter, Sam? A girl falls down some steps and you don't like her any more?"

"You!" Sam managed. "You're the werewolf!"

"What?" she gasped, horrified. "What are you talking about?"

He straightened up quickly. "Two nights ago - where were you?"

"What?" she demanded. "I was probably sleeping, why?" She walked toward him but he put a hand up.

"Stop!" He swallowed, realising his gun was in the Impala. He cursed himself on the inside. "Look - I know how you got those bruises."

"Yeah - I fell down the steps at school. Made a right ass out of myself - the kids have been giggling behind my back for two days already," she said, confused. "Look, if this isn't how you wanted the evening to go, then just leave. There's no need to make up some stupid story to avoid staying over."

Sam's floundering mouth closed tightly with an audible snap. She pouted and folded her arms, feeling just a little ashamed in the underwear that was certainly not designed for warmth.

Sam stared at her in silence until she looked up.

"What?" she managed, her face red.

"I - uh… I don't know what to say," he admitted dumbly.

"How about 'sorry, I'll leave then'," she muttered, turning away. "Sorry I dragged you out here, Sam. Sorry I thought it could have been fun." She walked off, bending and picking up her shirt quickly. She pulled the sleeves on. "You'll understand if I don't call," she mumbled. "Goodbye, Mr Raimi."

"Wait," he blurted. "Look, I'm sorry but you--"

"Just go," she shot back. "It's not funny any more."

"Veronica, just--"

"Sam," she said flatly. "It's fine. Just go. I won't be telling anyone about this, don't worry." She pulled her shirt closed. "Just leave."

He shuffled forward and picked up his t-shirt, wringing it into a circle in his hands. "Veronica, I'm real sorry about this," he said earnestly. "It's not that I don't want to stay--"

"Go," she commanded. "All I want right now is more wine and shitloads of chocolate. Get out."

He bit his lip and moved to put the t-shirt on over his head.

Until his downcast eyes spotted the shadow on the floor. He turned just as a hand swiped for his face.

It was a delicate hand. Morphing into long, vicious claws.

He stumbled back. He dropped the shirt. He collided with the wall.

Veronica snarled and leapt on him, inhuman teeth and nails bared. He gripped her wrists. He tried to keep them from his face.

.

* * *

.

**The large metal wheel turned. It squealed and protested all the way around. Finally it clanged to a stop and the two women pulled on it.**

**It swung open and they left it to its own momentum. It was already banging into the doorstop as the Pilot, Theta-Two, Delta-Four and Iota-Six stepped over the slight flange gingerly.**

"**Do we know what we're--. Holey pores!" Theta-Two gasped.**

**The four of them stopped and stared.**

**They had expected a Command Deck with pot plants, or a comfortable swinging chair, or perhaps a hammock and a large desk full of controls. What they actually saw was closer to an electrical fire waiting to happen.**

**Bare metal decks and bulkheads jutted, rusty in parts, stained with time in others. Random panels in the ceiling and centre stanchion were missing, cables spilling out. One or two cables twitched and buzzed in decay, unable to transfer their loads in their aged shape. The lights flickered on and off in random patterns, the decking showing signs of slight warping under their feet.**

**Behind the centre stanchion, against the far wall, was a large desk. Metal and unforgiving, it was propping up the soles of two large, used boots.**

**The Pilot walked toward it, looking around the pillar to find the boots were actually on a pair of large feet, crossed at the ankles and perched comfortably on the metal surface. She rounded the stanchion all the way before going any closer. The boots were lost in faded, distressed jeans. They ran up long legs that ended in a loose, v-necked t-shirt. Emerging from the short sleeves of the shirt were arms whose hands were laced together in the lap of the owner. It was a man - the same man, it appeared, as the Head of Emotional Processing. But this one was definitely a lot younger.**

**And he was smiling slightly.**

**It was not a nice smile. It was sickly, weary, resigned. It was rain on a pleasant sunny afternoon, a burst in a child's football, a hole in the pocket that had kept its ice-cream money.**

"**Was wondering how long it would take you to get here, sweetheart," the man said, and instantly she recognised the voice.**

"**Well well well. You must be Free Will," she allowed. She walked closer to the desk, looking the man over carefully. "I'm the Pilot. We've talked."**

"**Yeah, I know," he said lightly. "Have a seat."**

"**I thought we were about to battle it out," she smiled, approaching the table. She did not sit.**

"**No need for that," he shrugged quietly.**

**She let her eyes run over him more carefully. She noticed he was leaning rather too comfortably into the chair. "So… where is High Command?" she asked.**

"**Behind you," he allowed. "Second door to the left."**

"**Why would you tell me that?" she asked, suddenly suspicious. She heard a flurry of boots against the decking and realised the two female engineers were hurrying to check the aforementioned door.**

"**Because I don't have long left, sweetheart," he stated clearly, dragging her attention back to him neatly, "and I don't want all of you to go down with the vessel. I'm hoping you have an evacuation procedure somewhere in this ship's instruction manual?"**

"**What do you mean, you don't have long left?"**

"**Well…" he sighed wearily, "I've kinda been burning the candle at both ends. Not a lot left. There's a reason vessels have crews and pilots, and Free Will doesn't run the ship himself." He gave a tired shrug. "I'm guessing about ten to fifteen minutes. Can you all get out in that time?"**

"**Get out?" she demanded, riled. "We don't 'get out'! We're attached to the ship! We can't leave - this is our place!"**

"**Then you're screwed, darlin' - I'm sorry," he allowed.**

"**No, I don't think you are," she accused. "And the **_**Sam Winchester**_** crossed all those seas to answer our distress call! You **_**idiot!**_**" she raged. "They came all that way, put themselves in danger, risked compression failure and running out of fuel - all of that for you. Do you realise what will happen to the **_**Sam Winchester**_** if you go down?"**

"**I was down before. They'll survive."**

"**You arrogant--"**

"**It's not me," he shrugged. "You seen the state of this place?"**

"**What did you do to the Command Deck?"**

"**Not a thing - trust me. You think I'd trash my own centre?"**

"**Well you've scuttled the ship!" she cried angrily. "You expect me to believe it was like this when you fought your way in and took that desk from High Command?"**

"**Hey, I don't expect nothing. Get her out, ask her." He simply sat and smiled at her, and she had never seen such serenity.**

"**Did you hear Head of EP's message just now?" she asked plainly. "He needs you - this vessel needs you! You have to tell it what to do, right now!"**

"**Nah, I don't think so," he sighed. "To be honest, I don't even have the strength to get up. I think I'll just wait here until--"**

**She marched over to the desk, slapping her palms to the cold surface next to his boots and leaning on them.**

"**You know what the Captain of the **_**Sam Winchester**_** said when I told him you wanted this vessel to die?" she seethed.**

"**Uhm… 'Cool, now I can stop worrying'?" he hazarded with a maddening grin.**

**She pulled her hands back and her right one slapped into his boots. They were summarily shoved off the desk. Had he not grabbed the armrests to the chair he would have landed on the floor.**

"**Hey!" he protested, his face dark. **

**A metal scraping sound of a door echoed behind them. She ignored it.**

"**He said - and I quote - **_**boo-friggin'-hoo**_**!" she raged. "You are a **_**disgrace**_**, Free Will! You could do anything - **_**anything you wanted**_** with this vessel, but instead you piss and moan about how crappy you think everything is!"**

**The darkness on his face brought his eyebrows down into solid defence. "What do **_**you**_** know, lady?"**

"**I know Head of EP took the brunt of your forty years on stormy seas while you ducked out with alcohol!" she accused. "I know you imagine you're scuttling this ship because you think you just can't cut it any more!"**

**He put his hands to the desk and began to push himself up. He faltered and plummeted back down in the chair. "If I could get up I'd kick your ass, woman or not!" he hurled.**

"**Why bother?" she shot back. "I thought it was all over, that you wanted to fade away and leave us all to drown in this bucket?"**

"**Whatever - it's too late and you know it," he sneered. "I'm minutes away from non-existence and there's nothing you can do about it!"**

"**Says you," said an older woman's voice.**

**A tiny click. A whoosh. And Free Will gasped in shock, his eyes wide. **

**The Pilot stared at the red dart sticking out of his neck. Free Will stiffened all over. He keeled over backwards, slamming into the deck with a thump that made the assembled audience wince.**

.

* * *

.

Claire looked up as Dean put a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"Look," he said slowly, as if he had trouble making out her face from six inches away. "I ain't shooting you just yet. You can be helpful." He paused, struggling with something. "I th-think."

"How?" she sniffed, wiping her eyes. "It's getting late - moon will be up soon. There's nothing I can do about it."

Dean opened his mouth, then paused. "I was gonna say something… I _was_…" he breathed, lost.

"You ok?" she asked abruptly. "You look a bit--"

She gasped as the eyes of the completely human male rolled up. He slumped over backwards, landing on the carpet and not bouncing one little bit.

"Oh!" she squeaked, her hands up in shock. She froze, staring for nearly a minute in fright. Then her eyes ranged around the room slowly. She looked at her hands. She let the fingers curl and made her fists drop. She put her hand to the carpet by his shoulder, leaning over him. She slapped at his face gently. "Uhm, Dean?" she havered. "Ah… Dean?"

She felt for his pulse.

It wasn't there.

.

* * *

.

**The Pilot turned on the grating quickly.**

**A woman, her deep red uniform dusty but intact, lifted the pistol to her face, sniffing discreetly.**

"**High Command?" the pilot hazarded.**

**The woman dashed straggly grey-brown hair from her face, looking at the slightly younger woman in front of her. "You would be… the pilot?" she asked, breaking into a smile.**

"**Yes sir," she said smartly, before looking back at the desk. The two women hurried round it and looked down at the insensate man on his back. "Uhm… What did you do?"**

**High Command grinned an evil lip-curl. "Sedated him," she said simply. "He always was a bit of a whiner. He should come out of it pretty quickly - we'll have to act fast."**

"**What do we do with him?" the Pilot asked quickly, even as the other woman placed the dart gun on the desk and leaned over it, finding buttons.**

"**We do what I should have done a year ago," she said. She pressed a small green button, holding it down. "EP? Do you hear me?"**

**There was a long pause.**

"**EP, please respond. This is High Command."**

"**Hey!" came a thick, amused voice. "How you doing, sweetheart? Good to hear your voice."**

"**And yours," the woman grinned in relief. "How'd you like to straighten out a little bit of Free Will?"**

"**You kidding me? Where is he? We have a few things to discuss," he said, and both women heard the anger seeping in.**

"**You lock off those adrenaline levels first - set the vessel to autopilot. Then come up here to the Command Deck and **_**explain**_** a few things to him."**

"**Oooh," Head of EP rumbled with satisfaction. "On my way."**

.

.


	10. Ten

**Ten**

.

Sam wrenched the half-creature, half-Veronica off him. He scrambled across the floor. She snarled and bayed at him, throwing herself at his back.

They went down in a heap. He felt claws in his skin, felt his shoulder burning. He grabbed and pushed. There was a gasp and a crash.

He didn't look back. He pulled himself to his hands and knees and aimed for the door.

.

* * *

.

**The old man stepped in through the hatchway to the Command Deck, looking around. He whistled in surprise.**

"**Whoa. Someone needs a few screws in **_**here**_**," he said, surveying the run-down room with a critical eye.**

"**Don't they," High Command said.**

**He looked over at her. "So that's what you look like," he nodded with a smile that touched his eyes. "Where's the arrogant asshole then? He must be pretty low on steam by now."**

"**He is," she nodded. She stepped to one side, holding a hand out toward the stanchion behind her. "He's all yours. I'm just sorry I didn't ask you to do this a year ago."**

"**I wasn't strong enough a year ago," he admitted quietly. "And he was **_**too**_** strong. Now it's come full circle - leave him to me," he said firmly.**

"**Good luck," she said gently. **

**He inclined his head slowly and High Command looked at the assembled girls, watching with worried eyes. She gestured them back toward the exit.**

"**Don't you worry, ladies," Head of EP said with confidence, no even turning around to check they were leaving. "We'll have this vessel back to normal in no time." **

**They began to move to the hatchway behind him. He grinned evilly, stepping round the stanchion and finding the figure of Free Will out cold on his back on the desk, his arms out wide.**

"**Okie dokie," he said, clapping his hands together and rubbing fiercely. He walked straight up to the prone younger copy of himself. He put a hand out and gripped the front of the t-shirt, hauling it up toward him. "Hey," he snapped, slapping harshly at the face. The eyes blinked and rolled in their sockets. "Afternoon, sunshine," he called, his voice dark with maleficence.**

"**You?" Free Will grunted. "What do you want?" **

"**I'm here to educate you in the ways of caring and sharing. It's my department, after all," he warned with the same evil smile.**

"**Oh yeah? Bite me," Free Will spluttered.**

"**Oh I'll do worse than that," the old man breathed maliciously.**

**He drew his fist back and slammed it into the young face with all his weight.**

.

* * *

.

Sam leapt to his feet, turning. The snapping, snarling animalistic girl threw herself at him. He dived to the carpet. She rolled over his back, crashing into the door. She flipped over with superhuman agility and found her feet.

She bounded to the sofa, leaping over it to find--

Sam gone. The room empty.

She whipped round quickly, a deep growl echoing from her throat. Now more fur than girl, she tipped her head back and sniffed at the air. Then she began to slink toward the kitchen.

Claire lifted her head from Dean's lifeless throat, looking at her hand. "Oh shit," she whimpered. "C'mon, Dean! What's going on with you!"

She shuffled round on her knees. She gripped his nose shut, yanking his mouth open.

"Not exactly the way I'd hoped this would happen," she muttered nervously, tipping his head back a little. Then she took a half-breath and leaned down. She sealed her mouth over his and blew.

.

* * *

.

**Free Will grasped at the t-shirt on his assailant. They grappled for control. Head of EP swung his elbow and it cracked into the younger man's head. The old man gripped either side of the head beneath him. His elbows stuck out to keep the younger man's grip off him.**

"**Now we'll see who's the 'old man' and who's the whiner," he growled. **

"**No! Stop! Don't you--"**

**Head of EP pulled. Free Will was faster. He yanked on his arm. His elbow flew into Head of EP's temple. They went over in a heap.**

**The assembled spectators winced and growled encouragement as the two men, their only visible difference being age, grappling and struggled on the decking. Free Will shoved himself loose and rolled away. Head of EP's arm shot out. His hand caught the boot. He dragged, using it to pull him to his feet.**

**Free Will turned on his back, trying to kick at the old man with his other foot. But Head of EP simply grabbed that ankle too. Trapped, Free Will waited. Head of EP yanked and crawled up him. Free Will's boots snapped up and walloped into the old man's chest.**

**He was propelled off him. He landed on his back, **_**whoomf**_**ing to a cracking stop that made the crowd gasp in horror. But he sprang up again with more alacrity than a man of his years should have had. He grabbed the shoulder of the younger man. Free Will was spun around. Head of EP's hands clamped onto either side of his head. His elbows rammed out to protect his grip.**

**"_Why you_****_--!_" he growled in fury.**

**Free Will struggled and tried to push back. "Don't - you - touch--!"**

**Head of EP yanked on his hands. He drove his forehead down with all his weight.**

**The assembled girls winced in preparation for the impact.**

**But there was none.**

**Instead they watched, transfixed, as the two heads overlapped - as if sharing the same space. It lasted the blink of an eye.**

**A strange popping sound made them all jump. And then there was just one figure, one man, tumbling to the decking.**

**High Command and the Pilot raced over. They rolled him onto his back. He was coughing and gasping in air with desperation.**

"**Easy - easy," High Command instructed, holding his arms down to the floor. **

**She looked him over, finding him exactly as she remembered Head of Emotional Processing. But as she checked him over, she found he was beginning to look more like Free Will. She looked at the Pilot quickly, who seemed to be having the same trouble identifying the man. For although he had the same almost-spiked hair, the same build, the same clothes, the same lickable freckles over his face, he wasn't young.**

**But neither was he old.**

**In fact, the best description she could come up with was… indeterminate. High Command began to smile, even as she looked up at the Pilot, who was trying to keep his shoulders still.**

"**Which one are you?" the Pilot blurted. "Head of EP or Free Will?"**

**The man's face, red with exertion and adrenaline, turned to look up at them. He coughed again, but this time he was smiling.**

"**Both," he panted.**

"**Both?" all of the women bar High Command chorused.**

"**Whoa…" he breathed. "Been a while, but suddenly I feel more like me."**

"**It's so good to have you back in one piece," High Command grinned.**

"_**Back**_** in one piece?" the Pilot asked.**

"**We were never meant to be split like that. Free Will - he was on a real self-destructive kick," he heaved in disgust.**

**High Command patted his shoulder. "Well you certainly look more 'together' to me."**

"**Can I get up now?" he grinned. "I got a vessel to wake up."**

**The women grinned and pulled on his arms, hauling him to his feet.**

"**Mmm," he teased. "I could get used to this."**

"**Just get us ship-shape," High Command grinned.**

.

* * *

.

Sam edged round the doorframe, padding in his bare feet to the far wall. He felt for the window ledge, his fingers sliding along the painted sill in the hopes of finding a latch.

They did and he paused, listening. Then he bent down and tried to make out the catch in the darkness. His fingertips pressed and pushed, trying to find a way to slide it to either side.

A creak.

He froze, his heart in his mouth. He listened.

.

* * *

.

Claire's hands rested on Dean's chest as she counted down to the next compression. She felt a ripple go through the breastbone under her touch. She sprang back just in time as he coughed and spluttered.

"_Awww crap_," he gasped, apparently in pain.

She grabbed his shoulder nearest her and rolled him onto his side, holding him there as he tried to fall onto his face.

"You're ok, it's ok," she assured him, hearing him cough and suck in air. "Your heart stopped for a moment."

"And you didn't - didn't - rip it out?" he gasped, his head quite comfortable against the carpet.

"Does it look like it?" she demanded. "I just saved your _life_, Dean Winchester! Now just stay there while I call an ambul--"

"The other - other werewolf!"

"There's _another_ werewolf here?" she asked dumbly.

"Sam!" he coughed.

"Sam's the other werewolf?" she puzzled.

"Not a - a teacher," he wheezed. "We didn't check - check the rest of the staff."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded, completely, uncomfortably, and in every other way, lost.

"She made sure he'd call her - maybe cos she jumped us the night before," he rasped, still sucking in air.

"Who? What?"

"She wanted me out of the - the way!" He coughed raggedly. "Werewolf could be - could be - Veronica!" he panted angrily. He swallowed, still desperate for more air than he could drag in. "Phone - call him!"

She pushed herself up using his shoulder, running to his jacket on the bed. She lifted it and shook it until his phone fell to the blankets. She snatched it up, going to the menu and searching through names.

"Sabrina, Sacha, Salene, Sally, Samantha, Sandy - he's not in here!" she cried, panicking.

"S," he panted, getting his hands under him.

"I'm looking under S!" she protested. "Wait - 'Sasquatch'?"

"Call it!"

"You have your brother in your phonebook under 'Sasquatch'?"

"_Call it!_"

"Alright! I am! I am!" she gabbled, her fingers moving on the keypad.

Dean managed to get himself sitting up, leaning against the bed with his arms on his knees as he wheezed in air. She heard the line click and jumped in fright, tossing the phone at him. It hit him in the knee and he cursed, snatching it up off the floor and pressing it to his ear.

"Goddamn it, Sam! Answer your friggin' phone!" he snapped at it. "Pain in the ass voicema--. Sam! We checked all the teachers but not the rest of the staff - your date could be the wolf! I'm coming to get you!" He pressed the red key and tossed the phone at his bed.

Claire rushed over and helped him up, dragging him to a stop.

"Wait! You should go to the hospital, check--"

"Are you off your meds?" he demanded shortly, pulling his arm free of her guidance. "Which bit about my brother being on a date with a possible werewolf is not important to you?"

"Do you even know where he is?" she demanded.

"No - but _you_ will," he said. "And it'll answer a few questions on this whole mess." This time his hand went to her arm and he pulled her toward the door with him.

She shook him free and picked up his jacket and phone. "One thing," she said quickly.

"What?"

"I do this - I track her down for you."

"That's the plan!"

"And then you end it for me. I want this to be over," she demanded.

He stared at her for a long moment. "You sure?"

"Never been more sure in my life."

"Let's go." He turned but stopped short. She bumped into him and he turned on her. "Uhm… Is that your car outside?"

"Yeah."

"Keys."

"You are _not_ driving _my_ car!"

"Can you drive and wolf-shift at the same time?"

"Point taken."

.

* * *

.

**The Pilot ran to the monitors back in Operations Centre. She collided with the stanchion and snatched up the comms mouthpiece.**

"**All stations! Report in!"**

**Voices sounded off from around the vessel and she couldn't help grinning.**

"**Adrenaline Control? How deep is the trouble we're in this time?" she demanded giddily.**

"**Er - we're not," came the female reply. "All levels are evening out by themselves! We're monitoring and ready to jump in there, but--"**

"**Afternoon, ladies," came a rather suave male interruption. "Sorry to butt in like this, but High Command and me just want to let you know we've got it all under control."**

"**EP!" the Pilot grinned.**

"**Well you're half right," came the pleased response. "Emotional Processing and Free Will have had a kind of merger - a reintegration. This new department, Situational Evaluation, will be manning both stations from now on. Everything else is up to you. You girls have a nice day, now."**

**The Pilot hung the comms piece up slowly, beginning to laugh in relief as she did so.**

.

* * *

.

Dean turned the engine over and rammed Claire's Ford into Reverse, screeching out of the motel car park. The nondescript car leapt onto the main road as if kicked, tearing off toward the centre of town.

"She lives somewhere near the school," Claire said hastily from the passenger seat. "I should be able to catch her scent from there!"

He turned the corner, casting a glance up at the sky as he did so. "How does this werewolf thing work? You gonna stick your head out the window to howl and pee on the seats?"

She grinned, shaking her head. "Not if I can help it."

"Good." He looked at her for as long as he dared before putting his attention back on the road. "How wolf do you go?"

"You got your gun on you?" she asked carefully.

"Always."

"Save it for the wolf - and you'd better hope it's Veronica."

.

.


	11. Eleven

**Eleven**

.

Sam heard his phone ringing from far away. He ignored it. _Hopefully she'll think I'm running to answer it_, he prayed, feeling at the catch to the window. His fingers scrabbled and pushed. _Need the Impala and my gun!_

The rounded catch leapt open with a snap. He froze, waiting with wide eyes in the darkness. Nothing moved. He pushed the catch all the way open and grasped the window. He began to inch it up slowly.

A shape, a blur of movement.

It rammed into him at full tilt.

Sam was pushed off his feet, launched through the window. There was the sensation of flying. Then he was slammed into the ground with some large, snarling thing trapping him to the bushes underneath him.

Pain and heat. Sam struggled to keep the flashing claws from his face.

.

* * *

.

"**Captain - adrenaline levels at maximum!" came the man's shout.**

"**I see it!" the Captain of the **_**Sam Winchester**_** called back angrily. He pressed the comms button. "Adrenaline Control, can you bleed it off?"**

"**We're trying, but last year's Addiction Damage has caused valve problems!"**

"**Well try harder!" He let go of the button, grimacing to himself.**

.

* * *

.

Claire gasped and grabbed at the window block next to her with one hand, the seat with the other.

"Uhm - do me a favour," she managed, her voice rough and her breathing desperate.

Dean glanced at her. The moonlight was causing her eyes to shine yellow, her face to appear wretched. It was also causing strange changes. He looked back at the road quickly.

"What?" he dared.

"Don't look at me. Here it comes. Just keep - keep driving," she coughed out.

Dean stared at the road ahead as if his life depended on it. He felt his foot pressing more firmly into the accelerator. He resisted the urge to look at the passenger seat - and the reason for the strange, strangled noises coming therefrom. As he pushed his right hand inside his suit jacket to get a grip on the butt of the gun, he felt himself slide across the seat slightly.

Just to be that _little_ bit closer to the driver's window.

.

* * *

.

Sam pushed his legs up. The mass of snapping and snarling was propelled off him. He turned and raced over the lawn on his hands and knees. The black shape of the Impala waited by the kerb faithfully. He panted in urgent breath, getting to his feet.

He pushed himself to the car as he heard bounding behind him.

He caught a reflection in the driver's window. He ducked.

.

* * *

.

Claire put her hands to the window, her large claw-like nails tapping coldly against it.

"Window," she growled, quite literally. "Open it!"

Dean didn't look. He put a hand out and fumbled for the electric window control. He pressed all the others for the car before he found the right one.

Claire's window slid down and she moaned in relief, bringing her face - complete with rather oversized teeth and yellow eyes - to the edge. Her nose just broke the slipstream over the side of the car and she opened her mouth eagerly.

"Uhm - we're looking for another wolf, right?" Dean asked edgily.

Her mouth slapped shut and she grasped the top edge of the window pane. "Stop the car."

"What?"

"Stop the car! Let me out!" she managed, her voice strained and guttural.

Dean's foot applied the brake and the car screeched to stationary. She scrabbled with the handle before it released. She leapt out of the car and stood, looking around. Dean leaned over and pulled the passenger door shut. He watched her through the open window.

She turned in a circle and he stared.

Her long, slender limbs were now topped with vicious claws. Her clothes, intact, now flowed over sinewy, scrawny muscles. Her hair hung as it had always done, but suddenly the way she stood conveyed angry power about to be unleashed. She raised her nose in the air, her mouth falling open to reveal huge teeth and an eager tongue that tasted the scents on the breeze.

Dean took a deep breath before sliding his hand inside his suit for his gun.

Claire looked at him suddenly, her eyes shining. "Got her!" she growled. She turned and ran.

Dean jumped, gripping the steering wheel and stamping on the accelerator again. The car took off after her.

.

* * *

.

The claws pressed into his windpipe and held him down. He grabbed the arm and twisted. His legs came up and gripped the torso. The mighty power of every single huge muscle of Sam Winchester's arms was exerted and the two of them were flipped over.

He grabbed her windpipe this time. They strained and heaved. He pinned her down - a knee on her waist, a foot to the grass. She fought back - a swipe of claws over his shoulder, a snap at his hold on her.

Blind and automatic blood rage overtook her. And as Sam looked down at the werewolf, falling into the eyes that proved she was more unearthly creature than female, he realised blowing her entire cardiac organ out would be a very, very good thing.

If only his gun were not in the glovebox.

.

* * *

.

Claire bounded across the lawns on two legs, a single car attempting to keep up with her. She jumped the next fence with supernatural agility and came to a stop, panting in the night air gratefully.

The car came to a stop alongside the kerb, Dean leaning through the window to see. "Anything?"

"That house," she managed, her voice thick and barely intelligible. She raised a clawed hand and pointed. "She's in there."

"Is it Veronica?"

"Could be."

Dean killed the engine and leapt out of the car, bringing his gun with him. He took off toward the house.

"Wait!" she called, running after him.

But Dean did not stop. The two of them rounded the corner. She leapt over the six-foot fence without hesitation. He skidded to a stop, his hands against the wood. He looked up and then around. He ran to the right, finding a flimsy wooden gate. One good boot and it was swinging open, panels splintering.

He raced through and stopped dead, stunned.

Sam, in nothing but a pair of jeans, was on his hands and knees on the grass. He seemed to be getting his breath back. Dean looked to the sounds to his left. Two females - one obviously more feral than the other - were grappling for control of each other.

Dean kept his eyes on them warily. He ran to his brother, grabbing the first arm he found. "Get up, move!" he urged, helping him to his feet.

"Who the Hell is that?" Sam managed, pulling his arm free to point at the two women.

"Claire - Claire Barnes? Guess what - we got two werewolves in this place!" Dean snapped. "Let's--"

"What's she doing here?" Sam protested, unable to tear his gaze away.

Dean turned to look.

The wolf who used to be Veronica was leaping for the other woman. Claire - still strangely human and yet so obviously not - snarled and turned her shoulder. They collided and Veronica's claws went into Claire's face. She growled and grabbed. They rolled and struggled. The hairy version of Veronica swiped and snapped huge jaws. Claire was hurled to the grass. She rolled and turned. Her clawed hand went into the larger werewolf's windpipe.

Sam winced and squinted at the awful noises of death-threats in growls and grunts. He tried to look away but was entirely unable to stop spectating. Dean jumped slightly with each blow by either wolf, his face a picture of horrified fascination.

The younger wolf was pressed to the grass. Claire's hand came out. She leaned back. The clawed hand went down smartly.

There was a squelch and a strangled howl.

Then it all went silent.

Sam realised he was clutching the suit over his brother's shoulder. He turned, looked at his hand, and let go abruptly. Dean didn't look at him.

Claire sat back on her heels, her dripping hand out to one side. She turned it over deliberately and her claws opened. The large, squashy mass of heart un-suckered itself from her palm. It dropped to the grass like a mouldy tomato, bouncing noisily in the night air.

"Eeeyiu," Sam blinked.

Dean nodded, pulling his suit jacket straight. "Job done."

Sam turned back to the Impala, opening the door, but Dean walked over to the werewolves, stopping by the discarded heart. He crouched and Claire turned to look at him.

"That's it," she said quietly, her large teeth shining in the moonlight. "She's dead."

"Yeah, I noticed," Dean grinned.

Claire looked at the heartless woman, still pinned down under her. She fell to her backside in the grass, scrabbling away from it with a revolted shudder.

"Hey, slow down, it's over," he urged, putting a hand out toward her shoulder.

She skittered round the dead body with a horrified squeak. She grabbed his hand, pulling. Before he knew it she was kneeling in the grass with her arms round him, attempting to keep the night sounds and scents away by pressing her face into his shoulder. He held his hands out in helplessness.

Sam squeaked the door closed on the Impala and walked over slowly. He blinked at what he saw. But he didn't pause.

"Dean, move," he said calmly.

Dean moved his chin over Claire's head to look over his shoulder. Sam raised the gun in the moonlight.

"**Adrenaline Control, what the Hell's going on?" the new Head of Situational Evaluation - formerly Emotional Processing and Free Will respectively - demanded down the microphone on the **_**Dean Winchester**_**.**

"**This is Adrenaline Control. We don't know - er, sir - we had some spikes due to physical stress, but they bled off ok."**

"**So why is the **_**Dean Winchester**_** still at Fight or Flight readiness?" he asked, confused.**

"**We don't know, sir. I'll--"**

"**Ooohh, wait," he said abruptly. "I know. Don't worry about it, AC. Wrong department." He pushed a few switches and pressed the microphone button again, holding it down. "Stress Central?"**

"**Stress Central. Who is this?"**

"**Situational Evaluation."**

"**Who?"**

"**Didn't you get the memo?" he grinned. "Listen. We got Fight or Flight readiness and you gotta--"**

"**That's Adrenaline Control's department."**

"**Listen to me," he snapped, disgusted. "Just open the seals so I can get this ship to consider what it's doing on a calm, logical--"**

"**Open the seals? You have to be--"**

"_**Open the goddamn seals, woman!**_**" he roared. There was a silence. "…Please?"**

"**Of course, sir," she replied icily.**

**Head of Situational Evaluation huffed and let go of the button, cutting the connection. He watched the monitor, seeing the adrenaline level remain high but the urge to use it falling.**

**He stared, his hands hovering over the controls, watching carefully.**

Dean eyed Sam's gun, aimed at the woman clinging to him. He felt her shivering and automatically put his arms round her. "Put that away, Sam," he said quietly.

"She's a werewolf," Sam pressed bravely. "You said it - we had two. Now there's only one. And we need to deal with that."

Claire whimpered and her claws came up, holding onto Dean's left arm in desperation.

"No," Dean said calmly. "We need to get the Hell out of here before someone reports a disturbance on the back lawn and the cops come down here and find us with a heart and its former owner."

Sam's chin jutted out. "We put her down."

"You put _that_ down," Dean shot back.

"She's a werewolf!"

"She's _half_ a werewolf!" Dean paused. "Don't you get it? We got the best werewolf hunter in the world right here!"

"There's no such thing as half a--"

"Stow it," Dean interrupted. He shifted Claire to his left arm until one hand was free. He put it to her face, tipping it up to look at him. "How are those scratches, huh?"

"I'll - I'll live," she managed. "They'll heal."

Dean's arms moved round her and pulled. He kept his back between her and Sam, guiding her to her feet. She stayed under his arm, her eyes closed in fear.

"Careful," Sam blurted, his heart, quite ironically, in his mouth.

"She looks real dangerous, Sam," Dean spat sarcastically. "She might even lick my eye out."

Sam's gun hand dropped. But he stared with venom. "I know what this is about," he accused.

"We are not doing this here. We get back to the motel. Then, I promise, I'll listen to anything you want to say," he warned.

Sam opened his mouth but just watched, speechless, as his brother helped the shivering were-woman to the car.

"Fine!" he protested, his arms out wide, as he realised he needed to follow them back in the Impala.

"**Captain? We have worrying levels of Resentment down here," came a crisp voice. **

**The Captain of the **_**Sam Winchester**_** crossed the decking and picked up the comms piece. He flicked the switch. "We see it, Stress Central," he allowed. "It's within tolerances."**

"**But sir, it's building again. This ship keeps storing it up and we can't always be here to bleed it off--"**

"**Remember which ship this is, crewman," the Captain said firmly. "The **_**Sam Winchester**_** has been through a lot of crap, and we're still afloat." He took a breath, calming himself. "And anyway, seems we have a little help from the **_**Dean Winchester**_** now, too. We'll be fine."**

"**Aye, sir."**

**He hung the comms piece back up, turning to look at the crew watching him from their stations.**

"**We'll be fine," he nodded. "Get back to work."**

.

.

* * *

Thanks for reading so far, folks! Greatly appreciated. :)


	12. Twelve

**Twelve**

.

The two cars arrived back at the motel, dark figures quietly moving from them to the Winchesters' room.

Claire ran in and went straight to the washroom. She slammed the door as the brothers walked into the relative safety of the motel room cautiously, looking around.

"Claire?" Dean offered.

The sounds of gagging surprised both men. Sam turned and closed the door. He went straight to his duffle on the far bed and tipped everything out, finding a t-shirt. "So explain why we're not shooting her," he snapped.

"Cos she's not a proper werewolf," Dean said slowly, over the noises from the bathroom.

Sam turned to look at him. "Oh really? She just ripped a heart out of a woman, Dean!"

"Yeah, and half an hour before that she gave me mouth-to-mouth and saved my life! Why would a werewolf do that!"

"Had she changed yet?"

"That's not the point--"

"No! I see your point!" Sam accused. "You feel sorry for her, you like this girl, and ok, so maybe she helped you in some way. And now you don't want to have to shoot her for being a werewolf! Oh, right, where have I heard _that_ story before?" he raged. "I have to shoot them, but you can change the rules and keep 'em when they're _your_ special friend!"

"**Here it comes," the Captain of the **_**Sam Winchester**_** said to himself, leaning over the monitor of the girl in front of him. "See? We can't always get the ship to bleed off the excess, but the other ship in the fleet can."**

**The girl smiled to herself but she pressed a button professionally. "Adrenaline levels still rising, sir. We're expecting a spike of huge proportions."**

"**Good. It'll use it all up for a few hours," he nodded.**

.

* * *

.

"**Stress Central? I said keep the seals **_**open**_**," Situational Evaluation on the **_**Dean Winchester**_** growled down the microphone.**

"**We're trying, sir, but the ship keeps trying to--"**

"**Ok, keep at it - if those seals shut again when the crap hits the fan, we'll lose them!"**

"**Understood, sir."**

"This ain't about all the things you wish you hadn't done!" Dean shot back at his brother, and the two of them squared up. "It's about her living like a human for eight years, Sam!"

"Oh yeah? Lucky for her she got you and not me - I would have shot her when I found out!"

"And now you'd be _dead_! She just ganked your werewolf date, and you wanna kill her?" Dean shouted. "_Je_sus, Sam! I know you got a soft spot for werewolves, but--"

Sam's fist flashed up and into his brother's face. Dean was thrown backwards into the floor. He bounced into the carpet, too shocked to move for a whole three seconds.

Sam took a wary step back. He watched carefully, a lip in his teeth, already wishing he hadn't let his hand fly.

"**Bam! There we go!" cried the Captain of the **_**Sam Winchester**_** in vindication, straightening up and clapping his hands together. He rubbed them in victory. "See! I told you the **_**Dean Winchester**_** would get it all out of our system for us!"**

"**But sir… we're now showing rising levels of Guilt," the girl put in from the monitor.**

"**And that's just fine, believe me. Now watch - there's a reason these two ships work better together than apart."**

.

* * *

.

"**Holy crap!" Situational Evaluation on the **_**Dean Winchester**_** protested. "Right - that's it! We don't take this lying down, Mr Punch-Happy-Headcase!" He leaned over and grabbed a raised knob. "You wanna play dirty? Fine! We can play dirty! How about a little Family Angst to really smack you one in the gut?"**

**He wrenched the knob round until it clicked on '5'. "There! Take that, **_**Sam Winchester**_**, and all who sail in you! We'll see who'll win this little fight! You ain't even **_**seen**_** what weapons we got over here! You'll never see it coming!"**

.

* * *

.

Sam's eyebrows twisted and hunkered down in their abject anguish as his brother pushed himself to sit up on the carpet. Dean looked up at him, one raised eyebrow casting damnation and judgement over his younger sibling.

"What's the matter? Hits too close to home?" Dean offered quietly. "Hurts, don't it?"

Sam opened his mouth but his answer didn't come. He shook his hand out, feeling the smarting pain in his knuckles.

"Sit down," Dean commanded.

Sam's face was torn between a glower and an anguished pout that, had Dean been unrelated by blood and also female, would have urged him to hug the tall man better. As it was, it only served to make the older Winchester huff in consternation.

"I said _sit down_, Sam. Just shut up and listen."

Sam closed his eyes, letting out a long breath before backing up and dropping to the bed.

"See… This girl? It's not her fault. Her husband bit her - before Dad shot him," Dean began. He ignored Sam's look of surprise and ploughed on: "She got infected and it wasn't her fault. But instead of going wolf and rampaging around at night, killing people and eating hearts, she stayed clear of it. Now you've seen her when she's wolfed-out - not exactly Lon Chaney Junior, is she?" he demanded, his voice hard enough to smash a window if thrown. "She's got a lid on it somehow - she's in control even when she's not herself. Whether that's cos of how she got infected, or how she's dealing with it, I don't know. What I _do_ know is that it's _in her blood_ but she fights it every day."

He paused, watching the look of painful realisation spread over Sam's face. He cleared his throat.

"She's supposed to be a slave to this, have no control over eating people and doing bad crap to anyone who gets in her way. But she isn't - Hell, she tracked down your wolf even though she didn't want to - just to help me find her. And then she saved you by killing the bitch. She hates her wolf side - and I'm talking really _really_ hates it - and yet she'll use it when it gets the job done." He wiped a hand over his mouth, ignoring the pain in his chin. "Remind you of someone we know, _Sam_?"

"**Boo-yah! Take that, **_**Sam Winchester**_**!" Situational Evaluation on the **_**Dean Winchester **_**howled in victory, jumping out of his chair. "Touchdown!" he cried, punching the air.**

The youngest Winchester looked over at the bathroom door. The noises had stopped and now they could hear taps and groans of weariness. He looked at his hands in his lap. "So what you're saying is… She's kind of stuck with it. Like I am."

"Like you are," Dean said quietly. "I couldn't save you, I couldn't stop you turning into this - this - whatever you are," he managed, looking at the carpet.

Sam's eyes found his brother's face too easily.

"I was too young to stop this demon blood thing when you were a kid," Dean breathed at the floor, "and I wasn't here when you needed someone to smack you over the head and not listen to Ruby. And I'm sorry." He rubbed his chin. "I'm just… sorry. I can't be anything else."

"Dean--"

Silence pervaded the room, daring someone to speak. It took a few minutes.

"Dean. Look…" Sam wet his lips slowly, looking at the bathroom door. "I get it. You couldn't help me, but you can help her." He thought for a long moment. "So help her. If she wants help… then help her. But… How do you know you can trust her? Not to go Dark Si--." He bit his lip quickly. "I mean - I mean not to start eating people?"

Dean wiped a hand over his face. "It's the chance I take. More and more, these days."

Sam shot him a frightened look but Dean didn't see it. Sam stared, watching his brother wipe away the anger and frustration of the recent conversation, but it suddenly struck him that perhaps he wasn't the only one whom his recent past gnawed at from the inside.

He got up and went to the door, knocking softly. "Uhm, Claire? Are you ok in there?" he asked carefully.

"I will be. What time is it?" came the weak voice.

Sam looked at his watch. "Nearly five."

"Good. Just… just leave me here for an hour or so. I don't want you to look at me."

Sam sighed and walked back to the bed. He sat with a flump, before turning to look at his brother. Dean was still on the carpet, and looked to be very lost in a veritable sea of thoughts. Sam looked at his right hand, flexed the bruised fist, and then was completely powerless to keep his gaze from his wounded brother.

"**What the--. Captain, we've lost control of Stress Central," the girl said quickly.**

"**What? Show me," he demanded, crossing the desk to see. "Oh. Uhm…" He turned and hurried to the comms piece, lifting it quickly. "This is the Captain of the **_**Sam Winchester**_**. May I know who's shutting the door over there in Stress Central?" He waited, knowing full well what the answer would be.**

"**Hey, Captain," came the cheerful voice of a young man. "I know you're all real busy up there, so I thought I'd just help myself to this station for a while. There's a few things I need to do."**

"**And you are?"**

"**Free Will," came the earnest voice. "I think me and Free Will over on the **_**Dean Winchester**_** have some things to work out. So I'm just going to help you people by running Stress Central for a little while. Don't worry - you'll get it back when this little crisis is over."**

"**Oh, well… thanks. I think," the Captain said.**

"**Sure," came the happy voice, and then the channel cut off. **

**The Captain cleared his throat, turning to the crew, watching him. "This is how it happened on the **_**Dean Winchester**_**," he said slowly. "If he's not out of there in half an hour… We go get him out."**

"**Yes sir," the girl said smartly.**

.

* * *

.

**Free Will of the **_**Sam Winchester**_** sat back, scratching his head and looking the dials, switches and knobs over slowly. "Can't be that hard," he said to himself, flicking long hair from his eyes. "Now then - ah, here. So we've taken an Angst Blow to the gut, have we? Right. How about a little cold water on the situation, huh, **_**Dean Winchester**_**?"**

**He twisted the knob in front of him.**

"Hey," Sam said abruptly.

"What?" Dean replied quietly, still sat on the carpet and apparently liking it there.

"You said she gave you mouth-to-mouth," he pointed out.

"Yeah? And?"

"Why?"

"She said my heart stopped. And instead of helping herself to the warm buffet, she gave me CPR," Dean shrugged affably.

"No, I mean… why did your heart stop?"

Dean looked up at him sharply. "I have no idea," he admitted, shades of doubt over his face.

"Well maybe you still need to see someone. I mean - about why you passed out like that. She could have carved you up right there," he said innocently. "Anything could have happened."

"**Take that, **_**Dean Winchester**_**," the **_**Sam Winchester**_**'s Free Will said quietly. With a tiny, shiny smile. "And… here we go… one olive branch, coming up…"**

"But…" Sam said. He looked away.

"But what?"

"But you're like… well, you're more like you. Now."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean grumped, pushing himself off the floor and turning to his bed resolutely.

"That," Sam grinned, relieved. "Just… that. Grouchy and angry. It's a relief."

"Shut up, Sam," he groused, prompting Sam to grin to himself all the same.

They organised coffee from the room's sad excuse for a machine, filled each other in on the details of the case from their opposite sides, and by the time the sun came up, were ready for slightly more answers than they yet had.

.

.


	13. Thirteen

**Thirteen**

.

"**Yo, Skipper, give me the comms for a minute," Situational Evaluation said suddenly.**

**The Pilot looked up from her coffee, thinking. "Why?"**

"**Aw sweetheart - don't you trust me?" he oiled.**

"**When you put it like that," she grinned. She looked over at Iota-Six's station. "Let him have the comms," she nodded.**

**Situational Evaluation sat back, pressing the green microphone button. "**_**Sam Winchester**_**, this is Situational Evaluation over on the **_**Dean Winchester**_**. That joker you got in Stress Central over there? Put him on the comms," he ordered, his voice just amused enough to make it casual persuasion.**

"**Situational Evaluation?" came the response. "What's that?"**

"**Didn't you get the memo?" he sighed. "Look, Pilot over here's ok'ed this, so just whip your trained monkeys into action and get me your Free Will." He heard a slight gasp over the comms. "Yeah, I know it's him. Who else would be in your Stress Central, playing with the brightly coloured switches? Just get him on comms. Now."**

**There was a long pause, followed by a few clicks and blips.**

"**Finally," came the younger voice from the other vessel.**

**Situational Evaluation tutted. "Dude!" he protested. "What the Hell was that?"**

"**What?" Free Will on the **_**Sam Winchester**_** replied innocently, and Situational Evaluation could hear the grin in his voice.**

"**What 'what'?" Situational Evaluation cried angrily. "First you floor my vessel, then you go round trying to beat us over the prow with stupid questions! Lay off the sickness thing, alright!"**

"**Shan't," the **_**Sam Winchester**_**'s Free Will said, mock petulantly. "Make me."**

"**Look, this ship was all ready to undergo a diagnostic, but it's going to be hard to get it into drydock for a look-see with your constant sniping! Quit it!" he ordered.**

"**Oh. Really?" Free Will stammered. "Oh. I didn't think--"**

"**No, you didn't! **_**Je**_**sus, Free Will! Just shut the Hell up and let me get the **_**Dean Winchester**_** a full maintenance check, ok?"**

"**Uhm, ok," Free Will mumbled. "Sorry."**

"**Never stop, do you?" Situational Evaluation pressed.**

"**Sorry."**

"**Never think ahead, do you?"**

"**Sorry."**

"**Never could stay mad at you for long, could I?" he grumped. There was an awkward silence. "So…"**

"**So…"**

"**Yeah," Situational Evaluation said awkwardly.**

"**Yeah. Uhm… How's tricks?"**

"**Oh, not so bad. Things have changed a little over here recently…"**

.

* * *

.

Claire opened the door slowly, her head poking out. She looked at the two men, dozing on their backs on their respective beds.

"Um, morning," she dared.

Sam pulled himself to sit up.

Dean opened an eye. "Mornin'. How you feeling?" he asked quietly.

"Ah… a little… well, a little weird," she admitted. She shuffled out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. "I'm not used to people… well, people seeing me all… ah… y'know, like that," she finished timidly.

"Well I'm glad you were there," Sam managed. "Thanks for killing her before she could kill _me_."

"Oh. Yeah. Uhm, about that…" She swallowed and looked around the room slowly. Her eyes latched onto Dean with a plea for help.

"I'll just… uh… get real coffee," Sam said quickly, rolling off the bed. He picked up the Impala keys from the table under the window, scratching his head in an effort not to look at anyone before he left the room.

The door closed behind him and Claire felt her hands twisting together.

"Sit down before you fall down," Dean advised with a slight smile.

She let herself smile and sat on Sam's bed gingerly. "Well. Where do I start?"

"You don't have to say anything," Dean said quietly. "We seen a lot of strange crap, and you have nothing to worry about."

"I heard you," she breathed, watching her hands in her lap. "I heard you talking to Sam. You said some crazy things, and I don't understand all of it. But…" She looked up slowly, catching his eyes. "You have a lot of faith in me. For a werewolf."

He snorted in amusement, shaking his head slightly. "Well hey, I've met all kinds of assholes who were all human, and they've done a lot worse than you have."

"So… This reason you have to let me go on living like this…"

"Well?" he asked, when it was clear she was fighting with herself over it.

"I just… Well I have to ask," she said boldly, looking at him. "Are you willing to give me this chance because I'm me, or because… because you're you?"

He frowned. "I don't get you."

"Well… Thinking I can carry on _not_ eating people because I can handle it and I don't deserve to be shot is one thing… and it's very gratifying, believe me," she said earnestly. Dean fought the urge to smile at the bizarreness of the conversation. "But I have to wonder… Are you really believing in me because of me? Or because you just want to believe in something so badly you'll pick the first thing that looks like a better than fifty-fifty chance of going right? Or because… because it's like being there for your brother all over again?"

She held her breath, waiting for him to relax the tasked frown on his face.

"You really are good at this psychoanalysis stuff, aren't you?" he managed quietly, but the frown did not disappear.

"It's my job," she pouted quietly. "But you didn't answer the question."

He pulled in a deep breath, letting his eyes wander around the room. She waited and eventually they latched back on her.

"You know we're hunters. You know we spend all of our time shooting things, killing ugly monsters, basically skirting the edge of Nightmareville every time we try to stop creatures from snacking on people," he admitted quietly.

"But you're saving people, hunting things," she pointed out. "I get that." He looked at her for a long moment and she almost thought he would smile. "What?"

"Nothin'," he said, looking at his hands in his lap with a shake of the head.

"So what does that have to do with me?" she dared.

He looked up at her, and now he seemed the tiniest bit angry. "It's not fair, that's what it's got to do with you," he said forcefully. "You haven't done anything wrong, you're actually trying to _help_ people."

"I'm a monster."

"You're not a monster, you're--." He stopped short, biting his lip. "You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Now you're justifying it to yourself," she said quietly.

"Fine. I am justifying not shooting you to myself - or I'm thinking you're like my brother I couldn't save, or I just want something to be fair! Whatever, Claire! I'm tired of having to kill things when it ain't all black and white any more!"

She nodded, smiling in a sad way. "I see."

"I _do_ believe you can live like a human. I _do_ believe you can do this. So no, I don't think you should be shot for being half a werewolf who head-shrinks people so they can sleep at night," he went on angrily. "That's what you're doing to me right now, ain't it?"

She looked up at him quickly.

"I ain't always a dumbass," he allowed tightly.

She grinned suddenly, enjoying his look of caution. "No, you're not. You just pretend to be so you can ignore all the things you don't want to think about." She looked at her hands again. "Thank you."

"For what?"

She got up and moved to his bed, sitting next to him. "For not shooting me. I asked you to, and I thought that was the best thing, but…" She shifted closer, putting her head on his shoulder. He didn't draw away, didn't flinch, and she closed her eyes in relief. "But I think maybe you're right."

"I am? About what?" he asked, surprised.

"About being a werewolf hunter. You said I'd be good at it."

"You would. But I think you're better off staying a teacher. Counselling all those people with addictions and… personality disorders," he managed.

"You think that's more important?" she dared.

"Man cannot live by monster-huntin' alone."

She smiled suddenly. "Are we talking all men, or just you?"

"Men. Mankind. Ah - womenkind and, and all them things in between," he amended clumsily.

"So what do we do about _your_ personality disorder?"

"You can't have a personality disorder if you don't have a personality," he allowed.

She lifted her head and instead balanced her chin on his shoulder. She thought for a long moment before she raised her head, her hands going round his arm, prompting him to look at her.

"You have a scary personality. It's fierce and tough - but divided," she judged.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. You need your emotional life somehow integrated with what you want to do. Otherwise you can't function and everything sinks."

"Thanks. I'll look into that," he teased.

She put her head back on his shoulder. His left hand lifted as he sighed, taking one of hers from his arm. He transferred her palm to his right one, patting his left down on top a few times. She curled her fingers around his and let their hands fall on her leg.

"You two are leaving now, right?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah. Monsters to kill, demons to slay, that kinda thing," he nodded.

"But… can I… Can I call you one day? When it's all too much and I want to talk to someone before I try to end it all with silver? I think you're the only person in the world I could actually be honest with." She bit her lip to keep hold of her resolve.

"Sure," he allowed. His tightened his fingers on her hand. "I think I've been there. Sometimes I think I could do with someone I could--"

"Then it's a deal," she said, relieved. "I'll tell you about the days I'm thinking about chucking myself on silver railings if you tell me about the days you want the world to end just so you can sleep."

He laughed suddenly, and she raised her head to look at him.

"What?" she asked innocently. "What did I say?"

The motel room door opened and Sam carried the cardboard holder in. He shut the door behind him but stopped as he found Claire wide-eyed with innocent confusion, and his brother laughing with the kind of gusto he hadn't witnessed in a very, very long time.

"What'd I miss?" Sam asked, bewildered.

"I have no idea," she shrugged. She appraised the coffee, getting up and reaching for one. "Oh. You only got two," she observed, her hand shrinking from it.

"Yeah - one for you, one for me," Sam said, nodding to it.

"Where's mine?" Dean asked, having recovered.

"Here," Sam said maliciously, tossing a half-litre bottle of water at him. "Finish that and we'll talk about coffee later."

"Bitch!" Dean marvelled, catching the bottle.

"Jerk," Sam shot back with an evil grin.

.

* * *

.

"**Whoa - that's a reading I haven't seen in a while," Head of Situational Evaluation said in surprise, twisting the chair to one side slightly. His worn boots propped up on the desk, his ripped, faded jeans very comfortable in the swinging chair, he reached a hand out and pressed a few buttons. "What is that? A Comfort rating?" He blinked, both eyebrows racing for the safety of his hairline. "Well bang me seven ways from Sunday." **

**He leaned back in the chair, put his hands behind his head, and sniffed smugly to himself.**

"**Yup. Good to be balanced," he affirmed.**

**There was a crackle from the small speaker on the desk next to him. "Any time, dude."**

**He grinned. "Yeah, alright, man, I'm thinking."**

**The speaker hummed into life again. "What? It's not hard," came the man's voice in protest. "And be quick before the Captain finds out I'm using the comms again."**

"**Relax," Situational Evaluation breezed. "What's he gonna do, boot you off the **_**Sam Winchester**_**?" he scoffed. "Dude, you're the ship's Free Will. He **_**needs**_** you."**

"**You have a point." A pause. "So come on then - which one?"**

"**I can't believe we jerry-rigged the comms between us just so we could play Marry, Bang Or Cliff," Situational Evaluation chuckled.**

"**Only cos your job's too easy over there now."**

"**Bite me."**

"**Choose!"**

"**Ok, ok, hang on!" he protested. "Right… Megan Fox: bang. Nicole Kidman: cliff. Demi Moore: marry."**

"**What? Dude, she's like a hundred years older than you!" Free Will on the **_**Sam Winchester**_** laughed.**

"**And she likes younger men. Anyway, she ain't that much older than me - how long was I in those Hellish reefs?"**

"**Oh. Good point."**

"**So come on, your turn," Situational Evaluation grinned. "Marry, Bang or Cliff: Penelope Cruz, Halle Berry and Jessica Alba. And be honest…"**

.

**FIN**

.

* * *

And that's a wrap! I really _really_ enjoyed this one - I'm sad to see it all done and dusted, but also relieved it went over well and people 'got it'. Thanks for reading and reviewing, thanks for your patience and time, and I hope to be back soon with more stories to tell. In the meantime, keep your head above water, make sure your Free Will is fully integrated with your Emotional Processing, and always know where your towel is.

:)


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